Also when 'tis cold and drear
by Garonne
Summary: In the first months of their acquaintance, Holmes and Watson study each other from a distance, while Watson becomes more deeply involved in Holmes' cases, including one that Holmes seems to take rather personally. Adventure, and slash
1. One summer's evening a

Story: Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 1 of many...)

Author: Garonne

Warning: slash (none too explicit, however later chapters will justify the T, perhaps a mild M)

Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me...

From a plot-bunny by the inspirational Callensensei :-)

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It was a mere matter of two or three months before I came to realise that having found the good Dr Watson to share my rooms with was not the extraordinary stroke of luck I had originally considered it to be.

Initially, the arrangement seemed perfect. The man appeared to have all the qualities one could possibly desire in a fellow lodger. Amicable, tidy and almost always sober, most of his time was spent alternating between over-exerting himself in trying to walk further or do more than his state of health would allow, and lying prostrate on the sofa recovering. Besides this foolish cycle, his only other occupation seemed to consist of accumulating large amounts of scribblings, which most unfortunately he was careful never to leave lying around for me to read. In short, it would be difficult to think of a less disturbing set of pastimes in a fellow.

When I finally judged his health to be up to accompanying me on one of my cases, his appreciative reaction to my deductive methods established once and for all his soundness of mind and good judgement. Moreover, he seemed to have no objection to my playing of the violin at unsociable hours, and if he was occasionally disturbed by the noxious smells which the unpredictable nature of chemistry will sometimes produce even in the hands of the most skilful manipulator, he gave no outward sign of his discomfort.

If only he could have been old and ugly! Or even young and handsome, but empty-headed and fatuous. Instead he displayed constant proof of his steady nature and bottomless heart. It was a balmy August afternoon in 1881 when the suspicions which had been hovering in the darkest regions of my brain coalesced into the undeniable conclusion that living with Watson would prove to be a torment without end – but a torment which I would never wish to give up.

The revelation struck me while I was interviewing a client, a rather annoying old fellow by the name of Pendleford. I had invited Dr Watson to remain while the old man told his story, something I had begun to frequently surprise myself by doing.

The first time I had done so I had felt quite insulted, for Watson seemed to spend the whole time scribbling in his notebook rather than paying attention to my skilful probing of the client's memories. After a time, however, I came to realise that in fact, he was taking notes on the conversation! I had not forgotten his threat some time previously to publicise an account of a rather gruesome matter involving the murder of some Americans in London, with which case I had introduced him to my work. I had dismissed the idea as idle flattery at the time, but suddenly it seemed to me rather agreeable to have Watson concentrate all his attention on me in such a fashion.

For my conversation with Pendleford, Watson and his notebook were present as always. I lent a professional ear to the old man's long and rambling tale, but out of the corner of my eye I was watching Watson bent over his notebook, his pen flying across the page, a little crease between his fair brows giving his face an intense expression which I found oddly compelling.

Every so often I tore my eyes away from Watson in order to satisfy the minimum exigences of civility by nodding in acknowledgement of old Mr Pendleford, who was still reciting volubly. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, a chandler's wax-stained hands clutching the cardboard folder resting on his knees, his countryman's shoes clashing with the three-piece suit he had taken from the back of his wardrobe for his visit to town, and which had not seen the light of day since he had attended a wedding two summers ago - or perhaps three, it was impossible to say for certain. His enunciation was careful and his West Country accent quite light, as he poured out a story which he had evidently rehearsed several times in the train.

"So you see, Mr Holmes, although my brother-in-law's little hotel is getting along just fine, it will never make him a rich man. He is a little out of the way, on the edge of a town just outside the more popular parts of Gloucestershire. In the summer he does manage to fill his seven rooms most of the time, and in general makes enough to see him through the winter. At the height of the season, I go down to lend a hand to him and my sister for a month or two. I am a chandler, you see, and there's not so much demand for candles in the summer."

I wished very much that I had had the opportunity to outline to Watson the few simple facts I had deduced about Pendleford's profession and geographical origins, so that now I could enjoy his look of admiration when they were confirmed. Alas, that simple pleasure was denied me on this occasion.

Pendleford was continuing his tale, "This summer, however, he's somehow managed to get his hands on a large sum of money from somewhere, and somewhere dodgy at that, I reckon, for when I confronted him about it he blew up in my face. Told me to mind my own business in no uncertain terms. I'm sure there's something underhand about the whole thing. So I have done a bit of investigating before coming up to London to see you." With one calloused finger he tapped the folder on his knees. "I've made a list of all the names and addresses of the people he's written to recently, copies of all the receipts I found in his office, dates when he was away from the hotel without explanation and so on."

I had not the slightest desire to see a list of all the times Mr Pendleford's brother-in-law had been to see his mistress or perhaps simply enjoy a quiet drink away from his wife and brother-in-law, or read pages of receipts relating to silver-polish and bedlinen, or accounts which were probably dubious only in that the hotel-owner had distorted the figures a little in order to justify paying a lower wage to his brother-in-law.

"I'm afraid there is really no mystery for me to solve here, Mr Pendleford," I said. "It is probable your brother-in-law won the money gambling, or in some other fairly innocuous way. After all, not every man wishes to discuss his financial affairs with his wife's brother. I am afraid I cannot help you."

Pendleford's face fell, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson's head come up.

"Mr Pendleford seems to have spent a great deal of time putting together this collection of documents," he said mildly. "Perhaps it would be an idea if he were to leave it here for you to take a look through later. There may well be something of importance in such a large and detailed dossier."

As so often before, I was amazed once more by what a beautiful mystery the person of John Watson embodied. How on earth could he manage to care about being polite and considerate to a man he had only just met and would most likely never see again? How the devil did he manage to sustain his touching belief that I was merely being a little heedless, and that if I simply stopped to think for a second, I should become as kind and considerate as he? Most of all, why should I give a damn what the Doctor thought, and why should I instantly change my mind when I heard his words and felt his mild, thoughtful gaze on me?

I turned slowly back to Pendleford. "If you could be so kind as to leave your documents on the table, along with your address, I will be in touch with you as soon as I have determined whether or not there is a possibility of solving the case."

The old chandler's face broke into a beaming smile as he stuttered his thanks. I was facing him for civility's sake, but out of the corner of my eye I was watching Dr Watson. When I saw his mouth curve into a small, warm smile, directed solely at me, I reflected to myself that I would happily take on a hundred such trumped-up, non-existent cases simply to be on the receiving end of that smile again.

It was at that moment that I realised I was lost, and that it would have been better for all of us had that damnably good man never come into my life at all.

Watson showed Pendleford to the door while I sat in my chair, transfixed by my own stupidity. A few months with my guard down had been enough to spell the end of almost a decade of self-imposed celibacy and constant efforts to transform myself into a purely rational being, untouched by foolish and dangerous thoughts of affection or desire.

Watson came back to sit opposite me, looking rather pink for some reason.

"I say, Holmes, old fellow," he began diffidently, "I hope I did not speak out of turn just now. You seem a little put out."

I stared. How could a man as kind, as handsome and as good as Watson be so unassuming and modest?

He was still waiting for an answer. I hesitated for a moment between throwing myself at his neck, or shutting him out once and for all with the harshest retort I could devise. In the event I did neither, but rather muttered something about it being immaterial one way or the other, and retired behind the pages of the _Illustrated London News_.

Soon, the faint sound of pen-nib scraping on paper penetrated its way into my thoughts. I risked raising my head for a moment, and saw that Watson was sitting at his desk, scribbling away as usual. I could only see the back of him, with his thin invalid's shoulders slightly rounded as he bent over his work, and his fair hair caught by rays of summer sun from the window. I shook myself and looked away. Such observations were more worthy of a love-struck idiot than a rational, scientific man. If I allowed myself to continue in this vein, I would soon be dreaming of kissing that sun-burnt brow, of running my hands over the wiry frame which was slowly growing to be as well-built as it must once have been, of bending my head to –

I shook myself again, and jerked my newspaper up in front of my face to block that mesmerising view. If only Pendleford had brought me a real case, a case to fill my heart and mind and days!

I only had one comfort in all this sorry mess. I had soon noticed Watson's lack of discrimination when it came to the gender of those on the receiving end of his appreciative glances. I could be confident that, should I ever betray my true opinion of him by word or deed, I would certainly lose a room-mate but I was very unlikely to end up in gaol.

After an hour or two he abandoned his writing and came to sit opposite me, bestowing his friendly, open smile on me before burying himself in a lurid-looking novel whose title suggested it to be a tale of adventure in the wars against Napoleon. The book's cover, however, was illustrated with a 17th-century Portuguese galleon, this shocking inaccuracy giving me even less desire than I would otherwise have had to investigate its contents.

Watson appeared to have no such qualms, and we sat in comfortable silence for quite some time, while he read, and I watched him over the top of my newspaper.

Watching Watson read was superior in every way to what reading the novel myself would have been, I am quite sure. At first he sat far back in his seat, chuckling every so often when one of the characters uttered a joke. Then the tension gradually mounted, and he leant forward, gripping the book, as the heroes evidently went into battle. The engagement seemed to go ill for them at first, and some important character must have perished, for Watson frowned and even sniffed a little, though very discreetly. Finally, however, the obligatory victory was granted to Her Majesty's forces, the heroes returned home in triumph, and Watson sighed and laid the book aside. I made sure to be buried in my newspaper again by the time he looked up.

"Holmes," he said.

I lowered the pages a little.

"You're still on the same page of your newspaper as the last time I looked. You have been all evening, in fact."

I cursed myself for having folded the newspaper over instead of holding it open.

Watson was looking worried. "I hope you're not still put out about that business with Pendleford. I really am - "

I cut him off. "I have not given the man a moment's thought all evening," I was able to say in complete honesty. "I am pleased to see you are exercising your observative eye, however, my dear fellow."

He went pink with pleasure, and beamed at me. I had not intended the remark to be such a compliment, for after all it really was a very elementary observation, even if one which the great majority of the unobservant masses would not have made. However, anything which gave Dr Watson pleasure was worth the uttering.

"I have been making a study of your methods," he said, although from his tone perhaps 'confessed' would be a better word. "Perhaps you have noticed me taking a few notes during the cases you have been kind enough to let me witness."

"Indeed I have, once or twice," I said, not quite doing the truth full justice.

I would happily have sat there all night, lecturing him on the endless benefits inherent in developing one's skills of observation, but unfortunately Watson was already bespoken for dinner. The accursed third party was an old friend he had encountered by chance some months previously, and with whom he ate dinner in a fairly regular fashion, once every fortnight or so. Although Watson had not been very forthcoming about this individual, I had nonetheless been able to determine that he smoked Pall Mall, and that they had served together in Afghanistan.

Although I had never admitted as much to a living soul, I always feared to rely on my habitual skills when it came to matters in which I had a personal involvement. I knew this to be absurd, for deduction is a science whose results should not change with the emotional state of the observer. And yet the interpretation the observer puts on his conclusions can distort any given fact. It was one of the reasons I considered the strong emotions to be such dangerous, insidious things.

In the case of Watson's fortnightly dinners, for instance, I knew perfectly well that although they took place in a public house in the region of Piccadilly which was known to many gentlemen as a convenient location to procure a partner of the same gender, the establishment was also frequented by many perfectly respectable people, oblivious of the place's reputation. I knew it to be likely that Watson and his friend met there simply because it was a place known already to both of them from their student days, and not for any reason of current interest.

Although I had my suspicions regarding the level of intimacy of their relations in Afghanistan, my observations had made it clear that in London they remained fully clothed throughout all of their encounters, which indeed probably took place in their entirety within the public gaze.

All this I knew, yet nevertheless my mind would not cease its speculations. Why could I not be satisfied with these perfectly logical and indisputable conclusions? Why did my brain leap to fevered imaginings at the sight of a slight loosening in Watson's cravat, which was surely due to the oppressive evening heat and not to the fingers of his friend from Afghanistan?

I realised that Watson was standing by the door in his hat and coat, looking at me with an air of enquiry and presumably wondering why I had not responded to his parting words.

"I beg your pardon?"

He smiled. "I am sorry to disturb your thoughts, my dear Holmes. I merely said that Mrs Hudson is making beef Burgundy tonight, and I hope you will eat a good portion."

I could not restrain an impatient noise at this cossetting, which earned me a fond smile before Watson took his leave, and left me to my agitated thoughts.

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	2. One summer's evening b

Story: Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 2 of many)

Author: Garonne

Warning: Slash

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Holmes was on my mind as I walked slowly towards Knightsbridge, having decided that the evening was clement enough to warrant my trying to save the price of a cab or even an omnibus fare.

My path lay across Hyde Park, which was at its finest in the late evening sun, with plane trees blooming green and the crowds in all their summer colour enjoying the warm air and the cloudless skies. The bandstand was occupied even at this hour, and the paths were thronged with people enjoying an evening stroll, flower girls smiling at passers-by, and hawkers, beggars, pickpockets and rascals of every type.

It was exceedingly pleasant and would have been perfect, were Holmes walking arm-in-arm with me. Unfortunately he had never shown any inclination for spending the evening in a public house, downing a pint of ale and a steak-and-kidney pie, and so I walked alone to my dinner appointment.

The man whom I was meeting that evening was another Afghan veteran by the name of Wright, who had emerged from that terrible conflict even less lightly than I, for in addition to the loss of his right eye, his nerves had never recovered from the horrors of the Battle of Maiwand.

Our association in the East had been rather brief, consisting of several weeks of chance encounters in the large camp where we were both temporarily stationed, followed by one pleasant if not particularly memorable night together, before our regiments parted and we wished each other the best of luck with few regrets on either side.

Upon meeting again by chance at the Royal Hospital Chelsea, while we sat in line with all the other invalided veterans waiting to deal with the paper-work of our pensions, we were both simply pleased to see a familiar face amongst all the miserable reflections of our own broken selves.

On the several occasions we met after that, I was surprised to find Wright to be quite a different man when taken out of the military environment. I was happy to listen to his knowledgeable discourse on conditions in the slums or goings-on in the Houses of Parliament, and found it equally entertaining to lend an ear to his rather less intellectual rhapsodies about a handsome poet he had met at some political meeting or other.

This particular evening, he was unusually silent. He toyed with his food, and it was clear that he was only pretending to listen to my account of the thrilling case of Lauriston Gardens and the Mormons of Utah, before asking abruptly whether I would lend him fifty pounds.

I was so surprised that I laughed out loud. "Gladly, if I had that kind of money."

He let out a long sigh. "I know, it was a foolish question. I suppose that what I really meant to ask was, don't you know of any way a fellow could get hold of fifty pounds in an emergency? After all, it's not that large a sum of money, as things go."

"And can't – " I searched my memory for the name of his poet, whom I knew to be a man of independent means, " – can't Mr. Faulkner help you out?"

"Oh no, I don't want to bother him about this," Wright said instantly.

I put down my pint and looked speculatively at him. "What on earth do you need fifty pounds for anyway?" I asked, although his embarrassed manner had already sown the seeds of an idea in my mind. "If it's not indiscreet of me to ask?"

Wright was looking quite uncomfortable. "I've been a bit of an idiot, I'm afraid. I've left myself open to extortion – "

"Blackmail, in fact?"

He groaned, and nodded. "I wrote a poem about Faulkner, a rather, er, explicit poem. He's not mentioned by name, but I – well, like an idiot, I signed it. I had some idea of giving it to him, although I know I never would have plucked up the courage. Then my landlady's son found it, and – well, that's why I need fifty pounds."

"He's not threatening to set the police on you?"

Wright shook his head. "It's not a crime to write, ahem, that sort of poetry, you know, if you don't try to publish it. But when I think of my sisters, and my brothers-in-law, and – " He broke off. "All for lack of fifty damned pounds! It's not even such a large sum."

"I don't see why you think Mr Faulkner wouldn't be willing to help you out."

He went red and muttered something under his breath.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, he's a poet – and it was a very bad poem."

There seemed to be nothing to say in response to that. We sat in gloomy silence for a while.

I felt deeply for Wright, although he had certainly been quite incredibly foolish. I could only imagine that associating with a daydreaming young poet had been detrimental to his common sense. I would never have committed such an indiscretion, even had I had someone to inspire such poetry in me. There was Holmes, of course, an irrepressible inner voice whispered. However, it would have been quite foolish to write poetry, signed or not, to someone as scornful of the softer feelings as Holmes.

It transpired that I was not as immune to daydreaming as I had liked to think, for I drifted off into a reverie in which Holmes was surprisingly pleased to discover some poetry about himself, before being interrupted by Wright.

"About this fifty pounds," he was saying. "Surely you can give me some sort of tip, old chap? You used to be such a sporting fellow. A bit of insider knowledge for the Saturday races, perhaps, or a greyhound you've had your eye upon..."

I was obliged to shake my head. "My sporting days are behind me, I'm afraid. Holmes has my cheque-book under lock and key."

Wright sat up straight, his own problems seeming to be temporarily driven from his mind. "I say, what's all this? I thought you said this fellow Holmes was scarcely more than an acquaintance – a rather cold and distant chap, you said."

I had indeed said that, although in my efforts not to appear infatuated with the man, I had possibly done him less than justice.

"So things have changed somewhat since then?" Wright was saying.

"I don't know if I would quite put it like that. Why do you ask?"

"Well, taking care of a fellow's cheque-book – that's more the action of an intimate friend."

I remembered the first time Holmes had introduced me as his 'colleague and friend', just a few weeks previously, and the warm glow of pleasure that had filled me. Sometimes he said not a word to me for days on end, and I wondered if he would even notice, were I not to return home one night. Then he would surprise me by some word or attention which I knew he never bestowed on anyone else but me, and fill me with contentment for the remainder of that day.

I realised I was smiling foolishly at the thought, and looked up to find Wright grinning at me.

"You're constantly slipping his name into the conversation, and yet I feel I know nothing about him. Is he dark? Fair? Talkative? Taciturn? Charming? Exasperating?"

"All of those things," I said helplessly. "That is to say, except fair, obviously."

"And?"

"Well, I don't know what other words I can use to describe him. He is a man whose very being defies categorisation."

Wright was still grinning. "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant."

I shook my head. "No really, old chap, you've got the wrong end of the stick there. Holmes doesn't take any interest in any other living soul, man or woman, as far as I can see, unless they are connected to his work. As for myself, I see him as a pleasant fellow to live with, that is all." My cheeks felt hot, and I was sure I must be blushing, but fortunately Wright was too preoccupied by his own problems to pursue the matter, as demonstrated by his next words.

"I don't suppose he would know of a way I could get hold of fifty pounds?"

I thought of Holmes, and of the lists I had made about him in order to satiate somewhat my obsession with him, lists detailing his vast knowledge of some things and shockingly ignorance of others. "Not a legal way," I said.

Wright sighed, and stabbed viciously at a piece of carrot.

He was too preoccupied to contribute much in the way of conversation that night, so we did not dally over pints after we had finished eating, as was our usual custom. We left the public house not long before ten o'clock, while I urged him once more to approach his wealthy poetic friend for help. I did so half-heartedly, however, for I understood his reluctance. I myself, for instance, could not imagine myself daring to confess my foolishness to Holmes, were I in a similar situation. That was of course not to say that the association between myself and Holmes would ever be that of Wright and his friend. I never allowed myself to think of Holmes in such a way.

Wright and I said good-night outside the pub, Wright extracting from me a promise to send him a telegram if I happened to come across a good racing tip before we next met. I then took an omnibus home, for my leg was beginning to ache rather badly.

I found Holmes curled up on the sofa, the contents of Mr Pendleford's cardboard folder strewn around him. He greeted me without looking up, his gaze flying over page after page of the old chandler's carefully printed hand-writing. I sat down opposite him and picked up the newspaper Holmes had been reading earlier. Very little of my attention was devoted to the newspaper, however, for I preferred to watch Holmes at work. His dark brows were drawn together in concentration and his pale lips pressed together, one thin hand already deftly taking hold of the next piece of paper while his gaze was still on the present one. I was quite enthralled.

The pile of unread papers grew steadily smaller, while the other grew larger. At one point Holmes picked up what appeared to be a long list of addresses, and ran his eye down it. I saw him stiffen suddenly, and his mouth tightened and then curled into an odd expression I would almost have categorised as anger or disgust.

He dropped the list back into the cardboard folder, followed by all of the other papers, then closed the folder and threw it down on the table nearby. He noticed me watching and said, "I shall wire Mr Pendleford tomorrow to tell him that I cannot accept this case."

"But you have discovered something!" I cried. "You know something about the case."

"Yes, a crime has indeed been committed. But Pendleford is not the victim, and I can do nothing without the true victim's permission. It is probable, indeed, that he or she would prefer me not to act. Nor is Pendleford's brother-in-law the true criminal, so that if, as I suspect, he is simply hoping to get something of his own back on a detested brother-in-law, I should have to disappoint him in any case."

"But Holmes - "

He waved an impatient hand, brushing my objections away. "I assure you, my dear fellow, there is nothing I can do."

He reached for his pipe, lit it and sat back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

I conducted a brief inner debate as to whether or not it would be worthwhile trying to press the subject, but knew from past experience that such an attempt was unlikely to be successful. After a minute or two of silence, Holmes surprised me by saying, "I am rather curious to know why you haven't turned a single page since you sat down."

I jumped, startled, and looked down at the newspaper which, in theory, I was reading. Indeed, it was still folded open on the very same page where Holmes had had it earlier in the evening, when I had made precisely the same observation to him.

I had thought little of the matter at the time, except as a rather nice opportunity to demonstrate some observational skills, but now a strange idea leapt unbidden into my mind. The newspaper had lain abandoned in my lap because I had been too absorbed in watching Holmes, and dreaming about him. Could he possibly have been watching me in the same way? No, it was impossible! It was much more likely that he had been deducing at what hour I had shaved that morning, or where I had bought the pocket handkerchief in my breast pocket.

I looked back up, and found Holmes was still watching me, an almost imperceptible smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. My heart leapt a little, and I tried to calm it, although I could not repress the answering smile that came unbidden to my lips.

We held each other's gaze thus for a long moment, and I would have given a great deal to know whether his heart was beating as rapidly as mine.

Then a shadow suddenly crossed his face, his features took on a shuttered expression, and he looked away.

With reluctance I returned to my newspaper, my heartbeat gradually slowing, and although my gaze ran down the columns of print, it was quite some time before my brain began to take in anything of the subject matter.

I spent the next hour alternately cursing my over-active imagination, and half-reading stories about the Irish Land League and the signature of a new convention for the Transvaal.

Finally I laid down the paper and stood up to turn in for the night.

"I am quite exhausted," I said, accentuating the phrase with a yawn. "Do you know, this evening I walked all the way to Knightsbridge."

I was rather pleased with my feat, but Holmes was frowning.

"To the Queen's Head?"

I hesitated before answering, so strange was his tone. "Yes. Why, do you know it?"

"I know its reputation. And I must say, Watson, I think you're rather a fool for frequenting the place."

I stood stock still, wondering if I could possibly have mistaken his meaning. My heart began to beat faster, and I could feel myself going red again.

He went on, looking not at me but at the cardboard folder lying on the table between us, "Why take such risks, Watson? It seems to me an unnecessary and foolish practice, particularly when I have observed that you are equally as happy in the company of women. Why not confine yourself to them?"

I gaped at him, my heart pounding, unable to form a sentence.

Holmes was giving me an odd, bitter smile. "I do have a certain talent for detecting criminal tendencies, you know."

I would very much have liked to give a composed, level-headed response, but my mind was whirling and when I opened my mouth, only my stammered thoughts emerged. "I assure you I don't – I haven't broken any laws." Honour compelled me to add, "That is to say, since I came back from Afghanistan, at least."

To my surprise, Holmes looked suddenly away. "I do apologise, Watson. Your life is your own to do as you please with. I would merely be sorry to see it come to an unfortunate end. Good night, my dear fellow."

He stood up, and left the room abruptly, leaving me thoroughly confused and rather flustered.

I climbed the stairs slowly to my own room, wondering what on earth had prompted that sudden conversation, and what had been passing through Holmes' mind throughout its duration. It had been a profoundly unsettling exchange, although I attempted to comfort myself with the reflection that there had been no menace or disgust in his voice. Moreover, it had not been unpleasant to hear him voice concern for my safety, and with that and similar ideas I eventually managed to calm myself.

Another thought occurred to me as I lit the gas-lamp by my bedside. How on earth had Holmes come to know the Queen's Head?

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	3. Dark days of autumn rain  a

Story: Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 3 of many)

Note: I had originally planned to alternate between Holmes' and Watson's points-of-view, but the plot dictated otherwise... Never fear, Holmes will take up the pen again soon!

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Summer turned inexorably into autumn, but this year I welcomed the progression of the seasons, for even as the days grew longer and the air grew chillier, my health improved steadily in turn, my body nourished by Mrs Hudson's cooking and my brain by Holmes' cases.

I had not thought that Holmes himself paid a great deal of attention to my health, but in fact he must have noticed the filling out of my frame and the spring in my step, for he surprised me one evening by remarking:

"I must say, Watson, you're almost unrecognisable as the skeleton I was introduced to at Bart's last year."

Generally I bristled upon receiving comments on my appearance, particularly in relation to my sorry state since my return from the East, but to Holmes I always accorded a special licence. In fact, I was sadly flattered and bemused by the fact that he noticed my appearance at all. Fortunately we were sitting by a roaring fire, for the evening was one of London's damp foggy autumnal specialities, and the slight blush in my cheeks was probably not noticeable at all.

Holmes brought his long, thin fingers together in a steeple, and regarded me appraisingly over their tips. "Do you feel up to a cold and possibly dangerous vigil in Southwark tonight?"

I could feel myself grinning in a most idiotic manner. "By all means. When do we leave?"

He glanced at the clock above the mantle-piece. "In about half an hour. Wear your oldest, most disreputable clothes and bring your service revolver." He smiled back. "I shall be glad to have your steady hand by my side, my dear fellow."

I had accompanied Holmes on several of his investigations in the eight months I had known him, and had been privy to cases involving bank robbers disguised as cataleptic Russian noblemen, the theft of a most valuable piece of State property and all manner of other thrilling affairs, but this was the first time he had given any indication that I served as something more than a sounding board, a role which anyone could have filled. I hummed contentedly to myself as I rooted around my bedroom, looking out some sensible clothes and putting on my oldest shoes.

When I rejoined Holmes in the sitting room, he subjected me to a brief visual inspection, before nodding in satisfaction. He himself was dressed in a costume I had seen before, being the loose linen trousers and shabby soft cap of a labourer. When I reached unthinkingly for my overcoat, however, I earned myself a disapproving cluck of the tongue.

"Really, Watson, you cannot truly propose to spoil your eminently suitable attire by the addition of that monstrosity?"

I hesitated. Holmes' objection, I knew, arose from the pristine condition of the coat, a brand-new Ulster for which I had been saving all summer, to buy for the approaching winter months as a replacement for the threadbare affair which had travelled all the way back to Britain with me.

"I'm afraid I gave my old one to the Salvation Army," I said. "Dreadful lack of foresight on my part. How silly of me not to have foreseen this necessity."

"Wait here."

Holmes disappeared into his bedroom, and came back carrying a shabby old greatcoat. Instead of handing it to me, he held it up for me to slip my arms into, in a gesture which I found peculiarly intimate.

"Perfect," he announced, settling the lapels of the coat on me, and then letting go and moving away before I could savour the moment. "Now to Southwark, my dear fellow."

The cab-driver, naturally, grumbled about being obliged to go south of the river, but eventually a half-crown persuaded him to at least deposit us at the far end of London Bridge.

"It's what I would have wanted in any case," Holmes murmured in my ear. "A cab would stand out like a sore thumb in those parts. We shall proceed on foot after that, in a more discreet fashion."

I was burning to learn the purpose of our excursion, and fortunately for me, Holmes was in a mood to gratify my curiosity.

"This is not a very interesting case, I'm afraid," he began as the cab moved off. "Not at all worthy of the exertion of my intellect, nor of a place in your annals."

There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he said this, and I coughed to cover my confusion. I knew Holmes was aware of the records I had been keeping of his cases, thinking to turn them one day into a series of stories, but he rarely commented directly on the subject, and this reference had the effect of rendering me rather self-conscious.

Holmes was certainly aware of this, but he did not comment. "I promise you material worthy of your pen in the future, my dear Watson, but for the moment I hope you will forgive me for dragging you away from our comfortable fireside and making you brave the evening damp. With your help, I intend to track down the origin of a series of forged perpetual bonds which have been turning up around the city in recent months, all issued in the name of a small bank in the Midlands, my client in the case."

"And you believe the printing-press to be hidden in a tanning factory?" I guessed, inspired by the smell of one of Southwark's many such buildings, already wafting our way as we approached the river.

"Excellent, Watson!" He beamed at me. "Of course, it is really rather obvious, but you have done quite well all the same."

I had often observed the ire provoked in the inspectors of Scotland Yard by Holmes' condescending remarks, but for my own part, I believe I knew him well enough to take them in the spirit in which they were intended.

Holmes went on to explain further, "We shall simply follow the forgers to their warehouse – I already have an idea of where to find them this evening – then conceal ourselves in some convenient location to observe them, and gather enough evidence to set the police on them tomorrow."

This statement elicited a jolt of anxiety in the depths of my stomach. It was all very well for Holmes to talk airily of following, concealing oneself and so on, but I had had little experience with such covert operations, even in Afghanistan, and I was afraid I would betray us by some clumsy blunder.

"I do hope we shan't be too conspicuous," I said aloud.

Holmes swept me with his gaze, in that intent way of his which always obliged me to restrain myself from squirming under his scrutiny, and pray that I was not visibly blushing, as I was sadly prone to do.

"There is nothing more inconspicuous and innocuous than a man walking out with his young lady of an evening," he surprised me by saying. "Unfortunately, no young ladies of an adventurous disposition number among my acquaintances – indeed, no young ladies at all." He paused, and I hoped he was going to expound on the subject, but he said rather, "Never fear, the dark will aid us."

I sighed to myself. I should rather have liked to pursue a conversation about Holmes' lack of acquaintances among the fairer sex, but even had his interests turned out to lie with the other half of the population, as I sometimes suspected, there was nonetheless no reason that this should prove at all advantageous to me. I was undoubtedly doomed to admire him forever from afar.

The sun was setting as we crossed the river, transforming the dark, muddy water into gold. On the far bank we could see barges tied up by the wharfs belonging to the many warehouses and factories of the neighbourhood. We left the cab, and penetrated into a dark labyrinth of slums, overhung by the smell of tanning and all drowned in a grey autumnal drizzle.

I had had occasion to come to Guy's Hospital in the course of my studies, but once we had passed that I was in unknown territory. Holmes led the way, guiding me unerringly through the back streets. I wondered suddenly how long he had lived in London, and how he came to know it so well. For all I knew, he had been born here. We never discussed ourselves, I knew almost nothing about him, and yet I felt closer to him than I ever had to another living being. I was overcome by a sudden desire to know everything about him, from the first words he had spoken as an infant to the noise he would make if I ran my fingernail slowly and gently down the nape of his neck. I pushed the thought away, as I always did such thoughts, and concentrated on the task at hand.

We had come to a halt in a narrow street filled with public houses, lights and raucous noise. We were sufficiently close to the doorway of the nearest establishment, a few yards ahead, to be able to discern the faces of its patrons as they emerged. The rain was growing heavier, churning up the mud around our feet, but I was filled with excitement and delighted to be by Holmes' side. In the event, we were obliged to wait less than half an hour before Holmes perceived the two men we were awaiting.

The men took their leave of each other, and set off in opposite directions. For a moment I feared that Holmes and I would have to separate, each following one of the men, but thank goodness it was not so.

"That one's returning home, I believe," Holmes murmured, and we set off after the other.

It was not long before he came to a halt outside a warehouse adjacent to a tanning factory. He disappeared through a small side-door, and another man emerged a few minutes later.

"The Changing of the Guard," Holmes said softly in my ear. "Come along, let us find a back entrance."

He lead me down a narrow, murky alley to the back of the building, and by the light of a candle which he produced from his pocket we found a window set in the brick wall. It was held shut by a large iron padlock, which Holmes proceeded to open with a piece of wire, leaving me torn between admiration and horror.

"Where on earth did you learn to do that?"

I saw the flash of his teeth in the light of the candle as he grinned at me over his shoulder. "Never fear, Watson, I promise you I have never put my skills to immoral use. Come along, you first."

Once through the window, we found ourselves in a small, dark space about the size of our sitting room, and filled with crates and the smell of hide glue.

"Wait here," said Holmes, before disappearing silently through a door at the far end of the room.

He returned a few minutes later.

"The man we followed is on guard in the other room over a pile of freshly-printed bonds. The others should arrive some time during the night to take delivery, at which point I shall be able to form an idea of their number, composition, and general disposition." He grimaced. "Some day I shall be rich enough not to take cases which are so very lacking in any interest whatsoever."

"So long as you never become so rich as to no longer need to share rooms," I said without thinking.

Holmes looked up sharply, then gave me a fleeting smile, but only said, "We shall wait here until we hear voices in the other room."

We installed ourselves in reasonable comfort on some packing cases, hidden from the door by a pile of dust-covered empty crates which appeared not to have been moved in a decade.

The wait grew rather long, throughout our journey here we had set a brisk pace, the hour was late, and unfortunately these facts must have combined to cause me to doze off, for I found myself returning to consciousness some time later, struggling for a few moments to remember where I was.

I was now lying back on the line of cases where I had been seated, my legs swung up and a pair of thick linen sacks covering me in lieu of blankets.

"Holmes?" I said softly, sitting up.

A light flared nearby, and I saw Holmes' face above the match he cradled between his hands. He was smiling at me.

"Never fear, you haven't missed anything," he said. "All's been quiet."

The match burnt out, and we were plunged into darkness again, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I was moved by the solicitude Holmes had demonstrated in making me comfortable, and I rather wished I had been awake to feel his touch, yet I nonetheless felt a complete idiot, dozing off like an old coot after his Sunday lunch, instead of being able to keep vigil all night as a young man of scarcely thirty years should have been.

Before I could berate myself any further, we were startled by a sound from the window through which we had come. Someone else was climbing in!

The shadowy figure was soon followed by four more. We could make out little of the newcomers in the darkness, but I surmised them to be another band of criminals, here with intent to dispossess the forgers of their assets. Holmes and I stood stock-still, scarcely breathing.

Suddenly some idiot knocked over a pile of crates, which crashed to the floor with a thunderous noise. Shouts of alarm rang out from the neighbouring warehouse, and men began pouring into our little room, far more than I had believed to be there.

Holmes and I had been standing well back in the shadows. He began to edge towards the door, keeping close to the wall and drawing me with him. We escaped unscathed from the room containing the fight, and were starting to cross the other, larger warehouse, when a light flared and a shout rang out. Two men had been left to guard the bonds and the printing press.

One of them came running towards us. Holmes darted past him and grabbed a paper-wrapped bundle from the pile they were guarding, an action which seemed to me entirely senseless. He then took off at a run, myself on his heels, and our pursuer scarcely four yards behind me.

I was in no condition to outrun the man, a fact of which Holmes was well aware, for he gasped, "Left, Watson. St Magnus'," before darting off to the right. I turned left, into a long deserted street, but no sound of footsteps followed. It was at this point that I understood Holmes' reasons for taking the bundle of bonds, though the revelation did little for my morale.

I interpreted the rest of his words to mean that we should meet at St Magnus the Martyr's church, just the other side of London Bridge. I limped all the way there, managing to reach my destination without losing my way more than thrice. I was still out of breath by the time I descended the steps on the other side of the bridge to stand before the church, my lungs burning and one hand on the cold stone of the church porch to support myself. A tall, thin shadow soon came running up to join me, and I wished I had had more time to collect myself.

Holmes seemed scarcely out of breath, and I hated to have him see me like this, shattered and broken when I should have been in the prime of life, as he was. I wished I had had the foresight to conceal myself in the shadows of the church porch. To my surprise, however, he grasped my arm and pulled me into those very shadows.

"My dear Watson! You got away unscathed? No one touched you? Good Lord, what a shambles tonight has been!"

He was running his hands over me as if to confirm my lack of injury, but I was much too miserable to wonder at this uncustomary closeness.

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I held you back. A fat lot of good I've been to you tonight. You must regret having ever met a useless old wreck like me - "

He cut me off. "Don't ever think that." I scarcely had time to think anything at all before he had drawn me toward him, and his lips were brushing my nose in the dark. I tilted my face automatically up toward his, and it appeared the most natural thing in the world when we found ourselves kissing.

Holmes had one hand cupped around the back of my neck, and the other on my shoulder. He held me lightly, one could almost say politely, as if uncertain of my response. Indeed I was somewhat in shock, wondering whether fatigue had turned my brain, but I knew I could not be imagining the surprising softness of his lips, or the gentle brush of his tongue against mine as it emerged briefly from his mouth, to disappear again instantly.

I was strangely moved by his decorousness, but I could not long endure the electrifying touch of his lips against mine without responding with rather more heat and passion. I slipped my hand under the cape of his Ulster coat to encircle him with my arm and press him close to me. He seemed to appreciate this turn of events, for the hand on the back of my neck tightened, pressing my mouth against his.

Then I felt him still abruptly and pull his head backward, his body suddenly tense and stiff against mine.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"No, I assure you - " I began, although I knew already that he could not possibly be referring to his advance on me, for my lack of offence and anger could not have been more evident.

"I'm sorry," he said again. His hand brushed my cheek gently, then slid slowly down my arm as he stepped away. "I cannot - We should not - "

It was obvious then that he was apologising not for the embrace, but for ending it. I wished desperately that I could make out more of his expression in the dark.

"I beg you - " he said as he took another step back, though I am not sure whether even he knew what he was beseeching.

He turned and strode away.

"Holmes!" I cried, but he did not look back.

For a brief moment I saw the silhouette of his tall, spare form, uncharacteristically bowed over, as he passed from the churchyard into the gas-lit street, before disappearing from sight.

All of a sudden I realised that it was raining heavily, and that I was cold and damp. But I could still feel the warmth where Holmes' hands had held me, and where his body had pressed against mine.

My head still spinning, I walked slowly northward until I found a cab whose driver was already up and about in the early hours of that morning.

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I hope all the running around with the forgers wasn't too boring? Please do review!


	4. Dark days of autumn rain b

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 4 of many)

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A titration is an extremely delicate operation requiring a great deal of patience, and preferably a preliminary notion of the value one is hoping to obtain. The principle is quite simple: one allows one chemical solution to run into another, carefully measuring the volume which has been poured, until such a time as one observes a colour change, generally with the help of a third substance which has been added for that very purpose. From the quantity of liquid which has been expended thus far, one can calculate the concentration of the solution under investigation.

The nuisance is that in cases requiring an accurate answer, slow and careful work is required, in order to be able to immediately stop the flow of liquid at the correct moment. It is naturally imperative to keep one's eyes on the task.

For this reason, I was utterly unable to look up at Watson when he entered the sitting room the morning after our disastrous excursion to Southwark. I am honest enough with myself to admit, however, that in truth this was the very reason I had chosen this particular task for this particular morning.

Watson had taken almost an hour longer than I to return to Baker Street from London Bridge, of which fact I was very well aware since I had waited up for him, hidden behind my bedroom door. Even my own uniquely trained intellect, however, had been unable to deduce his state of mind from the sound his cane made as he propped it up by the door, nor the tone of his feelings toward me from the sound of the striking flint as he lit the lamp by the stairs.

Nonetheless my imagination, always liberated from its usual constraints by the mere thought of Dr Watson, did not hesitate to redress the deficit of data.

I spent the remainder of that night lying on my back, watching my bedroom ceiling gradually grow lighter, my stomach tight with tension and my thoughts chasing each other in circles. I refused to allow myself to wallow in self-pity, for I knew the situation to be entirely of my own making. However; I was tormented by the thought of the distress I feared Watson to be suffering.

It was possible, of course, that he had not been discomforted in the slightest, and that he was now snoring peacefully, having already dismissed from his mind the incident which to me seemed of such great import. Then I remembered the sensation of his hands gripping my waist, and the ardour in his kiss, and judged it more likely that he was now wretched, and furious with me. I was not sure which of the two possibilities tormented me the most.

I rose eventually and went to work on my latest experiment, sitting with my back to the stairs by which Watson would descend from his chamber. Fortunately he rose only slightly later than I, for I fast began to run out of solutions to titrate, to occupy my eyes, and had long since run out of reflections on the nature of chemical titrations to occupy my wretched mind.

I bent my head over my work, hearing his tread on the floorboards, then on the carpet, then once more on the floorboards as he picked up the morning's paper from the sideboard, and finally the scrape of his chair as he sat down to a very late breakfast. I could picture him easily without turning my head. Watson always looked immaculate in the mornings. Even if he had not yet dressed, his hair was always combed, and the stubble which I had touched for the first time the previous night was so fair as to be hardly noticeable. I longed to see him in disarray one morning, before he had had time to assume his military appearance. I longed to see how he looked when he had just awoken.

Even more, I longed to be the one to render him dishevelled myself, to disturb his carefully parted hair, to undo his pristine starched collar -

A scraping noise interrupted my foolish daydream. Watson was spreading jam on his toast.

After some time, he spoke up. "Do you mind if I take the last egg?"

The banality of it shot to my heart. "Not at all."

I heard the tinkle of metal on ceramic, and then the crunch as his spoon hit the egg-shell, shattering it into small parts.

After a few minutes, he spoke up again. This time was proceeded by a clearing of the throat. "Holmes?"

I made no reply.

"Holmes, I – Well, you know – " He cleared his throat again. "Dash it all, I don't know how to begin!"

I forced myself to turn around to face him. He was looking at me with an expression I could not read, his fair brows drawn together and his face slightly pink. Watson always blushed readily, something which I found rather endearing, on the rare occasions I could bring myself to employ such a ridiculous word. That day, however, I knew I had no right to take the time to enjoy the sight. It was undoubtedly best to grasp the nettle immediately.

"I apologise for forcing my unwanted attentions on you last night, Watson. I am most sincerely sorry to have disconcerted you thus."

"No, no, I assure you, they weren't - That is to say, not at all, my dear fellow."

Despite myself, my heart skipped a beat. What was it that my attentions were not? Not unwelcome, perhaps? It was what I longed to hear and yet dreaded, for to be certain that we both wished for the same impossible thing would have been still worse than being alone in my desire.

He was looking at me over the top of the tea-pot, his expression containing a mixture of embarrassment and some other emotion which I could not fathom. I wondered what he would do were I to stand up, cross the room to him, take his hand to pull him slowly to his feet, then - I stopped that train of thought, and managed to assemble a coherent sentence.

"I'm glad to hear it."

We both stared at the ground in uncomfortable silence for a while.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, I turned back to my laboratory equipment. Behind me, I heard Watson rise to his feet, then abruptly sit back down again. With determination, I fixed my attention on the drops of liquid falling from my burette. After a few moments, I heard Watson stand up once more, and begin to wander restlessly about the room, clearly attempting to steel himself for action. Finally he startled me by coming up close behind me, and clearing his throat. At that point, I could hardly refuse to turn and face him. Having done so, I could almost see the question burning on his lips.

He blurted out, "I'm a little confused, you know, Holmes. I thought - I mean I did wonder whether you also – whether you were also - " He stopped and cleared his throat again. "However I clearly remember you calling me a fool some few months ago, merely for frequenting the Queen's Head. The Queen's Head in Knightsbridge, that is to say."

Of course, I had already known instantly to which public house he was referring, and why. I rose to my feet to address him directly.

"You are a fool - or have been, at least. To break the law, laying oneself open to humiliation, blackmail and imprisonment, simply for the gratification of a mere physical impulse - it seems to me the height of idiocy." I felt as though all my despair and longing should have been evident in my voice, but in fact it emerged as cold and composed as ever. I could not prevent myself glancing away, however, as I added, "Until last night, it had been many years since I was such a fool myself."

Watson's face took on a most peculiar, unfathomable expression. At first I thought him to be justifiably angry with me, for I had certainly not restrained myself in my insulting of him. Then he amazed me by saying, "And if we had met in a different place, a different time - a society with different rules?"

I was floored by the question. How could I even begin to answer? How could I even begin to imagine the joy of what might have been? We were standing almost as close as we had been the previous night, Watson's face mere inches from mine. I could see the faint blond hairs under his ear which he always missed when shaving. His eyes were wide and intense, and in his gaze I thought I could read the same sentiments as in my own heart.

That was the unfortunate moment Mrs Hudson chose to come and clear away the breakfast things. We hurried apart, while Mrs Hudson clattered around the room, muttering to herself about young gentlemen who breakfasted at noon.

Once she was gone there seemed to be no way to recapture the moment, and indeed I judged it better not to. I did not wish to be tormented by knowing the precise nature of Watson's feelings for me, one way or another, and it was undoubtedly best in any case that he not suspect the depth of mine.

I said quietly: "I merely hope my idiocy has not lost me an excellent fellow lodger."

Watson was standing by the fireplace, his hands in his pockets. "Of course not. I am happy to put the matter behind us, if that is what you - " He stopped, and glanced away. "As I say, I am happy to put the matter behind us."

His voice held a note which lent a certain lack of conviction to the statement. I had to remind myself sternly of all the resolutions I had formed as a young student, when I had come to realise that the proclivities I then indulged were incompatible with a life free of fear and constant paranoia. A poor detective I would have made, moreover, to break the law so recklessly myself.

"As am I," I said aloud.

"Excellent."

"Yes, indeed."

We stood in awkward silence for a long moment, avoiding one another's gaze.

Eventually, I cleared my throat. "I am going to send a telegram to Lestrade requesting him to call, and instructing him to assemble a squad for Southwark tonight."

Instead of calling Billy, I walked to the post office to fill in the form myself. This was the work of a mere ten minutes, however, after which I was obliged to return to Baker Street, where I pretended to read the _Daily Telegraph, _andcaught Watson looking at me thoughtfully every so often.

I soon abandoned this awkward arrangement for the task of determining the melting points of some crystals I had grown, surely one of the most tedious and intellectually unrewarding tasks on God's earth. Similar in quality to watching paint dry, the task was perhaps a just punishment for my foolishness, and had the added benefit of allowing me to escape from continually catching Watson's eye accidentally.

I set up my thermometer and other equipment, reflecting that it was only when obliged to perform tasks such as this that I regretted working alone, for it would certainly have been convenient to have some hapless assistant to which to delegate such work, which was an utter waste of my brain's enormous intellectual potential. Watson often smiled to himself when I uttered such remarks, but I saw no reason for false modesty. In any case, I had noticed that he himself was of no mean intellect, though exceedingly self-deprecating. It was one of the many things about him which I –

Unwilling to utter the dreaded word, even in the privacy of my own mind, I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. I stared determinedly at the crystals which were slowly heating, deliberately not thinking of Watson, though my heightened nerves grated at his every sound. When I heard him tut at something he read in the paper, I had to close my eyes and shake my head in order to drive away the memory of his tongue brushing delicately against my own.

Lestrade's visit provided a welcome, if brief, respite. When he left, it was a few hours short of dinner-time, but I had no intention of sitting opposite Watson unable to swallow a morsel, like a love-lorn idiot.

I had not planned to be present for the police raid on the forgers' warehouse in Southwark that evening, but now changed my mind. I longed to escape from Baker Street, and moreover I rather felt like barking at some Scotland Yard detectives. If I did go, however, I knew it would be the height of rudeness not to invite Watson along too.

"I am going out, and shan't be back until late into the night," I announced nevertheless, looking down at the gloves I was pulling on. I did not wish to see his expression, which I expected to be angry or hurt.

"You're going to Southwark?"

I was obliged to reply in the affirmative. I risked a glance up at him, and saw that he was giving me his mildest smile, his gaze filled with comprehension.

"You are right in considering that it's best if I stay here this time, my dear Holmes, for all sorts of reasons. I shall wait up, however, so you had better come home in one piece."

"Watson, you are indisputably a man in a million," I blurted out before I could restrain myself.

His smile broadened. "I believe I am starting to rub off on you, Holmes. Such hyperbole is surely something you would usually chaff me for."

However, he looked pleased as punch.

"Good night, my dear Watson," I said softly.

"Good night, Holmes. Take care."

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Note: I don't suppose there's anyone out there who knows how gas-lamps worked in Victorian times? Did you have to open them up and light them with a match or was there a flint inside?


	5. December fog a

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 5)

Thanks to everyone for all the information about gas lamps. There are certainly a lot of very knowledgeable people on this site – among Sherlock Holmes fans, at any rate! So gas lamps were generally lit with matches at the time. It's a shame it was so, though, when you think of all the poor match-factory girls and their phosphorus jaw.

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The fog swirled in dense, yellow clouds around us as Holmes and I walked down Whitehall in search of a cab. Upon our emerging from Scotland Yard, five minutes previously, there had not been one in sight, and we had decided to walk toward the grand thoroughfare that was the Strand and try our luck there. We had reckoned without London's winter fog, which was growing thicker by the minute. By the time we reached Trafalgar Square, what with the fog and the early onset of the night, we could scarcely see two yards in front of us.

We walked along side-by-side in silence, not touching. Holmes was undoubtedly reflecting in satisfaction on the abductor of pedigree dogs whom he had handed over to Lestrade that afternoon. I, however, was thinking about Holmes.

It was almost four weeks since that cold, damp, wondrous embrace in the shadows of St Magnus the Martyr's, four weeks which Holmes had spent entrenched behind a defensive barrier composed of piles of books and mountains of glassware, while I studied him covertly from a distance, wishing I had his powers of divining another man's thoughts. The touch of his lips had granted me one brief glimpse into his heart, allowing me to read sentiments there which I could never imagine him voicing. Since then, however, I had spent many hours doubting my memory and my interpretation of that brief moment.

I realised suddenly that Holmes was no longer beside me, and came to a halt.

"Holmes?" I called, peering round me in the fog. A tall, lean figure was approaching, but when his path took him briefly into the light of the nearest gas-lamp, I saw that it was an middle-aged, bespectacled gentleman, a scarf wrapped around his face to protect his lungs from the fog. I had the good sense to step into the circle of light myself, and Holmes soon appeared beside me.

"Where the devil did you wander off to, Watson?"

"I thought we were making for the Strand."

"Indeed. I'm afraid you were walking in entirely the wrong direction, however. This way, my dear fellow." With a wave of his hand he indicated a direction which appeared to me to be indistinguishable from all others. "Come along, and let us try not to lose each other again."

I looked around at the shadowy figures of Londoners who loomed out of the fog every so often, only to be swallowed up again just as quickly, and then at Holmes, who was hovering half a yard away from me, waiting for me to follow him.

"This is ridiculous," I said suddenly. Stepping forward, I reached out deliberately and took his arm, as would have been the most practical and indeed natural thing to do, before our relations took this strange new turn. Holmes stiffened at my touch, but relaxed after a few moments, although he kept his silence as we proceeded across the Square.

I decided to take advantage of this now sadly inhabitual closeness to pose the question which had dominated my thoughts in recent times. "Holmes, I - " I realised then that I had no idea how to broach the subject. I hummed in my throat, and recommenced. "For the past few weeks, I - "

He knew instantly to what I was referring. "I'm sorry," he said, his gaze directed not at me, but at the poorly lit footpath ahead. "I was a fool. I have spoilt our amicable relationship."

"Perhaps. However - " I took a deep breath, and uttered the words which had been spinning around my head for the past month. "Don't you think we could regain it, and a great deal more besides?"

Holmes stopped short, pulling me to a halt with him, and turned to face me. He looked absolutely striking, and my breath caught in my throat. His face was weirdly lit by the beams of light breaking through the fog behind him, its sharp lines accentuated, his eyes in shadow. He was staring at me intensely, his head inclined slightly down toward mine. For one wild moment I thought he would kiss me, although that really would have been a most foolish and indiscreet thing to do in the middle of Trafalgar Square, even in the fog.

Then his face twisted suddenly into a scowl, and he looked away. "It is not something I wish to discuss, and certainly not in public."

I was loath to abandon my ground so easily, however, particularly since I doubted whether I should ever work up the courage to broach the subject again.

"Why ever not? No one is about, no one can see our faces, and what is more the fog deadens all sound."

"I see no point in making us both miserable by discussing a hypothetical situation."

In fact, I was more encouraged than not by these words, dispersing as they did one of the many theories I had considered over the past month: that he felt very little for me at all. "But, Holmes - "

He snapped suddenly, "Really, Watson! Surely, as a medical man, you cannot be advising speech in this blasted fog, and the concomitant exposure of our respiratory systems?"

I was forced to concede the point. Moreover, to my dismay and his relief, a cab came crawling slowly up the road at that very moment, its driver peering down into the fog. Half an hour later, after a slow and cautious journey, we arrived back in Baker Street, where I found that in my absence my friend Wright had called, and left a note.

_I called twice but you were out. Must see you most urgently. Need your advice. Please come to the Queen's Head at eight tonight if you can. If I don't see you there, I shall call again tomorrow. _

_Your servant, Peter Wright_

I turned to face the room. Holmes was sitting in his armchair, his entire body stiff, watching me through narrowed eyes. He was clearly waiting for me to attempt a reprisal of our conversation in the fog. I hesitated, but I knew I could not turn down an appeal for help from an old friend simply to gratify my own wishes.

"I am going out to dinner," I said, some evil demon prompting me to add, "To the Queen's Head."

"Indeed?" said Holmes in a tone of the utmost disinterest, already turning away.

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We had not even begun to eat when Wright launched into an explanation of his urgent request.

"I could rather do with your advice, old chap - I have a problem on which I'd urgently like to consult your friend, Mr Holmes. However I wanted to sound you out first, because, well, the matter is a delicate one, and your friend is practically a policeman, after all."

I could not suppress a smile. "If you wish to obtain his help, I would advise you not to begin by calling him that, or you shall very quickly find yourself in his black books."

"Oh, dear! That would never do at all. I really can't think what else to do, I'm at my wits' end, but it is such a tricky business that - "

He looked set to wax lyrical in this vein indefinitely, so I took advantage of the interruption caused by the arrival of our dinner to take control of the conversation once more.

"Try and start from the beginning, old man, and tell me the whole story in a coherent fashion. I presume this has something to do with your landlady's son, and that fifty pounds you needed?"

"Oh, things are much worse than that now! The young bastard sold that bloody poem I wrote to a man who specialises in that sort of thing. You know, compromising documents and the like. A professional blackmailer, in short. He's already forced me to come and meet him once, and I can tell you, he's a nasty piece of work. And now I'm really out of my depth. He's asking me for a thousand pounds!"

I choked on a piece of steak-and-kidney pie. "Good Lord!"

I understood now why Wright was looking so grey, and why his food lay practically untouched before him.

"But it's ridiculous," I went on. "Where does he expect an army pensioner to obtain that kind of money? It's preposterous."

"Not really," said Wright gloomily. "My family were quite well off at one point, as a matter of fact. Perhaps he thinks I inherited more than I did. What's more, he presumably knows the types of circles I move in. I do have quite a few rich acquaintances, you know, even if they are all radicals. Or perhaps he simply expects me to turn to a money-lender."

"It seems to me that you can do no better at this point than to lay the whole matter before your friend," I searched my memory for the name of the subject of Wright's indiscreet love-sonnet, "Mr Faulkner."

Wright was emphatically against the idea. "I haven't seen Faulkner since this fiend first contacted me. What if he's having me followed, and he transfers his attentions to Faulkner as well? No, it seems my only hope is to consult this friend of yours. And yet I hesitate, for it is such a delicate matter, you know."

"I assure you, Holmes is the most gentlemanly and discreet of men. He would never read the contents of a document retrieved from such a person as this blackmailer you mention. However, I should warn you that he is very observant, and moreover the most intelligent man I have ever met. You may try to withhold some part of the truth, but I am sure he will very quickly guess it in its entirety."

Wright looked horrified. "But he's practically a policeman! If he saves me from the clutches of this scoundrel only to turn me over to the police for indecent behaviour - "

I felt the memory Holmes' lips on mine. "I believe you can rest assured that he will turn a blind eye to – that aspect of the matter."

Wright's tense shoulders relaxed a little as he came to a decision. "In that case, I should very much like to consult him."

"If you call around tomorrow afternoon at two, I believe you will find us both at home. I shall send you a telegram tomorrow morning to confirm the appointment."

When I returned home to Baker Street after dinner and another long slow journey through the fog, Holmes was still in the sitting room, going through the week's newspapers with a pair of scissors. After I had sketched an outline of Wright's predicament for him, he agreed to meet the unfortunate man and hear his story at first-hand the following day.

I had most certainly not forgotten our aborted conversation of earlier that day, but this evening did not seem to be the most fortuitous time to attempt to persuade Holmes not to be inhibited by a fear of exposure and disgrace.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

The following afternoon, after we had bid farewell to Wright and he had limped out the door with many thanks to both of us, I turned to Holmes, rather anxiously awaiting his reaction.

Throughout the interview with Wright, he had been his usual gentlemanly self, as with any client. Wright had omitted to specify the precise content of the imprudent poem, or the nature of his relationship with its subject, but I was in no doubt that the entire truth of the matter was already clear to Holmes. I had been watching anxiously for any reiteration of the cutting remarks he had previously uttered on the subjects of foolish men who laid themselves open to blackmail, but if such thoughts entered his mind, he kept them to himself. Indeed, I believe his anger on that other occasion had been directed at himself, and no one else, for I had already observed him to be the most compassionate man I knew.

Once we were alone, we both sat looking at the card Wright had left with us. It read:

_Charles Augustus Milverton, Chilworth Street, Paddington. Agent._

Holmes looked up at me, his face sombre. "Pray God you never have the misfortune to fall into the hands of this fiend, Watson."

Suddenly he leapt to his feet and crossed the room to his vast archives, returning some time later with a cheap cardboard folder which had a certain air of familiarity to me.

"Isn't that the collection of documents put together by that old man with a suspicious brother-in-law last summer?" The case had led to nothing but I had been looking over my notes about it just the other week. "His name was Pendleford, I believe."

"Precisely."

My curiosity aroused, I drew closer to Holmes. He was kneeling on the floor, rifling through the pile of documents. Eventually he gave a satisfied exclamation, and withdrew a sheet of cheap cartridge paper. Leaning over his shoulder, I saw that it was the very same list of addresses which had for some reason convinced him not to accept the case the previous August.

My eyes flew to the third address on the list, printed in Pendleford's large, careful hand.

_C. A. Milverton Esq., Appledore Towers, Hampstead, Middlesex_

"His home address," said Holmes in satisfied tones.

"So Pendleford's brother-in-law was in correspondence with – Milverton!"

Holmes nodded. "As I explained to you and Mr Wright, Milverton makes it well known that he is in the market for compromising documents. Presumably Pendleford's brother-in-law had managed to get hold of some sordid detail about one or more of his guests, perhaps two well-known people who were not married, or at any rate not married to each other, who hoped to stay discreetly in his hotel. There is nothing I can do about it. The matter has most likely already been settled, one way or another, and I am loath to pry into someone else's private affairs without a direct request for help. However, it does furnish me with Milverton's home address."

He restored the papers to their original home, and went to stretch out his legs by the fire, where he remained motionless for the following half an hour, plunged in thought. I did not venture to disturb him, but when he sprang to his feet and disappeared into his bedroom, emerging some time later in the guise of a rakish young workman, I understood that he had decided on a plan of action. I little dreamed, however, the momentous effect that campaign was destined to have on our own relationship.

I saw little of Holmes over the following week. He came and went at all hours, but did not make me privy to the progress of his plans. One evening, however, as the cold December rain hammered against the windows, and Holmes sat by the fire, drying himself out after a day spent outdoors, I ventured a question which was not directly related to the case.

"When I came home from the Queen's Head that night last summer, the day Pendleford had called, you gave me rather a dressing-down for frequenting the place. I have been rather wondering whether it was because you had Milverton and his ilk on your mind?"

Holmes looked up sharply, and I was taken aback by the anger in his eyes. "I think I have already made it clear that blackmail is one of the things I fear the most; and foolishly laying oneself open to it is one of the things I despise the most."

The harsh tone stung, and I cried out, heedless words propelled from my lips by my own frustration at the awkwardness between myself and Holmes.

"Have you no sympathy for such cases in your heart? How can you treat them as weak and lacking in will-power? Have you no comprehension of the things love can drive a man to do, of the risks he is willing to take for it, of the happiness that can be found in it?"

Holmes looked at me coldly down his long thin nose. "I have no time for such nonsense."

I regretted my words already, for having seen the effort he was exerting on Wright's behalf, however foolish he considered him to be, I certainly should never have called him heartless.

"I am sorry, Holmes, I ought not to have spoken so. Yet I cannot allow you to insist that you have never been stirred by feelings of – of nonsense, as you call it. Last month, by London Bridge - "

He cut me off. "I believe we had already agreed to forget that incident."

"And have you?"

He did not answer.

On impulse I reached across to him and took his hand. He flinched but did not pull away. I turned his hand over so that the palm was facing up, then ran the index finger of my other hand over the calloused palm, exploring the countless small scars and acid burns. His hand was trembling slightly in mine. I ran my own trembling finger slowly up toward his wrist, then pressed two fingers to his radial artery. His pulse was racing.

I raised my eyes to his. I knew that Holmes understood my point without my needing to utter a word; there was no denying the physical effect we had on one another.

Suddenly he jerked his hand out of my grasp.

"I must go out."

He vanished into his bedroom. A few minutes later he passed me without a word, dressed in the same workman's clothes and goatee beard which he had been sporting all week, and disappeared out the door.

I spent the evening reading the latest issue of _The Lancet_, to which I subscribed in the hope that one day I should be able to return to practice, and should have need of all the latest medical knowledge. It was to be hoped that none of my unfortunate patients should present with any of the rare complaints I read about that evening, however, for although my eyes were moving across the page, my mind was engaged in its habitual pursuit of thinking about Holmes.

He returned after some hours, soaked through once more. As he sat beside the fire, removing his disguise, his gaze returned constantly to me. Once he had regained his true appearance, and some measure of warmth and dryness, he said:

"I have some news which I should probably share with you, Watson. I am engaged to be married."

"Good heavens!"

He was sitting back in his chair, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. He appeared the picture of composure, but he was watching me intensely through hooded eyes which belied the seeming serenity of his posture.

I managed to gather my thoughts together sufficiently to utter the appropriate response. "Allow me to congratulate you, my dear Holmes."

He nodded abstractly, and turned his head to gaze silently into the fire.

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Please do review!


	6. December fog b

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 6 of 10)

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My fiancée knew me as Escott, a young plumber with prospects. She was a house-maid by the name of Agatha Trent, with the attractive quality of being in the employ of Charles Augustus Milverton. Unfortunately, she was fonder of giggling over the stories in that week's gossip columns than detailing Milverton's habits to me. Over the course of many interminable evening walks, however, I did manage to gain most of the information I sought on the interior of Milverton's home, as well as an intimate knowledge of the latest music-hall actress scandal in all its gory details.

Two days after confessing my engagement to Watson, I was almost ready to proceed to the next stage of my plan. This knowledge enabled me to meet my fiancée that evening with somewhat less of a sinking feeling than usual.

She was waiting for me as always by the kitchen door of Appledore Towers. I shut my eyes as I gave her a peck on the lips, but it was impossible to convince myself that she was Watson, for she was almost a head shorter, and although she did sport something of a moustache on her upper lip, it was nothing in comparison to Watson's magnificent growth.

Besides, I did not believe anything could ever compare to the warmth of Watson's touch, the fierce urgency of his embrace -

"What's the matter, sweety?" Agatha asked, jerking me unpleasantly back to reality.

I have always been a consummate actor, and had had little difficulty convincing Agatha of my supposed regard. I had no illusions, however, that convincing her of my prosperity had not played just as important a role in my courtship, and my dubious physical charms presumably none at all. The continuing engagement, however, would have been a great deal easier were I not plagued by thoughts of Watson and by the mountains of pork-pies Agatha persuaded the cook to prepare for me.

That day, when Agatha, giggling as always, led me into the kitchen, my trial turned out to consist not of pork-pies but of Cornish pasties.

"I set aside a few special, Aggie," the cook said as we entered. "I knew you'd have your young man here this evening."

I was dismayed but not surprised to see that as ever, their idea of 'a few' differed radically from mine. Unfortunately Agatha had a healthy appetite, and was unable to accept that her young man should eat any less than she did. I began to move discreetly toward the window, on the other side of which I knew Milverton's guard dog to be tied up. He was always exceedingly appreciative of my gifts.

"The dog always makes such a lot of noise when you're here, sweety," Agatha remarked to me. "I think he likes you."

"All the same," I said firmly, "I prefer you keep him tied up, and give me free run of the garden. I like to leave over the back wall, you know."

"That's right," the cook said approvingly. "Wouldn't do for the master to see you've got your gentleman friend around, Aggie. Ah, I remember when me and Higgins was your age..." She turned away, heaving a gentle sigh.

I nibbled the corner of a pasty, for appearances' sake, and wondered what the size of Mr Higgins' girth now was. "By the way, I believe I saw him last night. Old man Milverton, I mean to say. Don't fret, he didn't see me."

"Couldn't have been him anyway," said Agatha. "He always turns in at ten-thirty, prompt."

It was one of the last pieces of information I required in order to begin to construct my plan of action, and that evening, as we strolled along the edge of Hampstead Heath, some careful probing elicited details which allowed the rest of my plan to fall into place. I was able to listen tranquilly to a description of the Princess of Wales' new tiara, while the majority of my mind was occupied in putting the finishing touches to my plan.

Fortunately Agatha never horrified me with discussions about our wedding, for she saw it as happening quite a long way in the future, when I should have 'enough money put by', as she herself put it.

I wondered idly how anyone ever withstood the torture of being married to a giggling, frivolous idiot. There were a number of women who did not fall into this category, of course. However, I did not think it would be a great deal better to have to face, across the breakfast table each morning, one of the sweet young things who always turned Watson's eye. After months of observation I knew his taste perfectly: gentle blonde girls with sweet smiles and a fragile air. One could hardly imagine anything more different to me if one tried.

He would make an excellent married man, I reflected as Agatha prattled on about the Dowager Duchess of York's garden party. I could see him already, sitting by the fire on cold winter's evenings, his children tucked up in bed, his gentle, fair-haired wife darning his socks or some such foolery, and he watching her over the top of his newspaper - rather as I caught him doing with me occasionally, in fact. I pushed that thought away, and looked sideways at Agatha. She was presumably an excellent darner of socks, but it was an attribute I was prepared to forego in a life's companion.

I saw Agatha back to the kitchen of Appledore Towers, and escaped with relief after another chaste peck on the lips. It was wonderful to be back in Baker Street, which was free from darners of socks in all their myriad forms, although it did contain an invalided army doctor who had spent the past few days drifting about the place with a dreadfully forced expression of cheer and goodwill pasted on his face.

"Good evening, Holmes. I trust you spent an enjoyable few hours with your fiancée?" he said with what he evidently intended to be a carefree smile.

I had deliberately kept him in the dark regarding the true nature of my engagement, in order to stave off any reprisals of the awkward conversations he had been initiating since my moment of weakness by London Bridge. I would be lying, in fact, if I attempted to claim that such a motivation had played no part in my sudden and rather panic-stricken decision to reveal the very existence of the betrothal. That night, however, he looked so miserable that my stomach turned over with guilt.

"Watson, I believe I should have been – rather more honest with you regarding my engagement. In fact, the other party is Milverton's housemaid."

Watson stared at me. I thought I caught a glimmer of hope in his wide, shocked eyes, though it had disappeared before I could be sure, and he attempted a smile, a polite conventional substitute for the warm grin I had grown to love.

"Well, you know I am a man who does not believe in letting societal norms stand in the way of happiness. I shall look forward to meeting her."

"I doubt you ever will, for I intend to disappear out of her life as of tonight."

His cheery smile faded into a look of bewilderment.

"I needed information." I said it reluctantly, for I knew what his reaction would be.

"But the girl, Holmes!"

I shrugged, hiding my pain at his horrified expression. "As a result of my engagement, I now know Milverton's home and habits like the palm of my hand. I do not see how else I could have obtained such information. Besides, I assure you that I have a hated rival who will step in as soon as my back is turned. There is no emotional attachment on her part."

"And on yours?" asked Watson, although as soon as he had said it he looked as though he could have bitten off his tongue.

For a moment I was dumbfounded. How could Watson possibly imagine that anyone else could hold my attention, since I had met him?

"No, of course there is not." Seeing he intended to press the subject, I said abruptly, "Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house tonight."

His jaw dropped, and he stared at me in naked dismay. "For Heaven's sake, Holmes, you cannot mean that! Think of the consequences should something go wrong - the detection, the arrest, your reputation lying in ruins, your career ending in disgrace - "

"In fact, not dissimilar to the consequences Mr Wright faces now. And yet he cannot burgle Milverton's house on crutches, with sight in only one bad eye. How can I not act for him, in such a case?"

I was quite unprepared for the glow of affection that appeared in Watson's face when he heard this.

"You are quite right, of course, my dear Holmes. When do we leave?"

It was my turn to be suffused by affection. Nevertheless, I could not but object.

"You are not coming, Watson. There is no reason why both of us should expose ourselves."

"Indeed I am! It was I who brought this case to you, after all. I should never forgive myself were it to be the cause of your downfall. Besides, Wright is an old friend."

He was wearing his most bullish expression, which I had only had occasion to enjoy on a handful of occasions before now. I found the word enjoy to be appropriate even in that context, for I enjoyed all of Watson's expressions.

"Very well," I said slowly. "I cannot deny that I shall appreciate your companionship."

"After all," said Watson with the hint of a smile, "I should not find it so unpleasant to be in a prison cell, were I sharing it with you."

"That won't come to pass," I said firmly, before rising to my feet, impatient to begin preparations. "I have often felt I would make a better criminal than any of those I have ever encountered, and I assure you, this operation will be planned and executed faultlessly."

I went to fetch the burgling kit by which Watson had been so shocked, some months previously, while over my shoulder I gave him instructions on making masks and dressing appropriately.

Two hours later, we were walking along the edge of Hampstead Heath, having paid off our cab some hundred yards away. A bitter wind swept wisps of fog across the heath toward us, and we were grateful for our overcoats. It occurred to me suddenly that we were following precisely the same path as did my evening walks with Agatha, though in what different and more pleasant circumstances! I glanced across at Watson. He grinned back, clearly, like myself, filled more with excitement than apprehension.

I already had a plan of action laid out clearly in my mind: I knew precisely how we would proceed from the greenhouse to the drawing room, and thence to Milverton's study, which contained the safe housing all the documents of his villainous trade. The guard-dog was tied up, thanks to Agatha, and so once over the back wall of Appledore Towers, we stole across the lawn without incident, and hid in the shadows of the house.

It was the work of a moment to cut a hole in the glass of the greenhouse door, and turn the key from the inside, although I will admit that Watson's admiring glance added a certain extra pleasure to the task.

Once inside, we found the house plunged in total darkness. After a moment's hesitation, I reached out and took Watson's hand in mine. He gave my hand a welcoming squeeze.

I lead him thus through the exotic plants and flowers of the conservatory, whose lay-out I had already memorised when I had inveigled my way into seeing it, earlier in the week. Beyond the door of the drawing-room, we were in territory where the house-maid's beau had never been allowed to penetrate, but my eyes had already grown accustomed to the darkness, and I was able to lead us without mishap to the study, Watson following trustingly behind.

The study was filled with tobacco-smoke, and I judged Milverton to have quit it some quarter of an hour previously. More unsettling, however, was the fire which still burned strongly in the grate, as though someone intended to return to the room.

I released Watson's hand, not without reluctance, and by the light of the fire I crept across the room to press my ear to the door which led to the adjacent bed-room. No sound came from within, and I concluded that Milverton must already be sound asleep. Turning back to face the room, I was delighted to see that Watson had taken the initiative of examining the door which led directly to the garden, though disquieted to learn that it was open, rather than locked and bolted as Agatha had informed me was the usual practice.

I set Watson to stand watch by the garden door, and turned to the tall, green safe we had come to open. Within moments I had laid out all my tools, and set to work.

Safe-breaking has always been a particular pleasure of mine, and I scarcely noticed the time pass as I worked away at the delicate task. Finally, the lock yielded to my ministrations, and I swung the door open, revealing an enormous pile of paper packets, shocking me by the sheer size of the villain's trade.

It was not possible to read any of their contents by the light of the fire, but before I could take out the lantern I had brought, a dull noise in the corridor outside had alerted me to the approach of some member of the household. I swung the door of the safe closed, bundled up my case of tools and dived behind the curtains of a nearby window, dragging Watson with me.

We stood as still as possible while the footsteps which I had already heard from a distance grew louder, and then the door to the room opened. We heard the sound of a match being struck, and the room was soon filled with light, as we could see through the crack between the curtains.

I craned my neck slightly to look over Watson's shoulder, and saw a short, fat man in a claret smoking-jacket, comfortably ensconced behind a desk, holding something with the air of a legal document about it and lighting a cigar. He settled down and began to read.

I had evidently completely miscalculated Milverton's movements that night, for this could not be anyone other than he. He was slowly turning the pages of his document, blowing an occasional languid ring of smoke into the air, and looking set to remain there for quite some time.

Although most of my mind was occupied by trying to find some means of escape from this horrible predicament, I was quite considerably distracted by Watson's closeness. He was slightly in front of me, his body pressed against mine as we tried to fit into the small space behind the curtains. He was rigid with tension. I found his hand again and took it, giving it a reassuring shake, and he relaxed somewhat against me.

I had only to move my hands a few inches, and bend my neck somewhat, and I would have been holding him in my arms, my lips nuzzling his neck. I was hard put to resist the temptation, but I knew I could not but do so, for I was extremely conscious of our precarious position, with Milverton only yards away, and sudden detection imminent.

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Note: I've taken a lot of liberties with the Arthur Conan Doyle story featuring Charles Augustus Milverton - however, all of the hand-holding does occur in the original!


	7. December fog c

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 7 of 10)

Many thanks to Charm and Strange, anatomy expert, who is responsible for Holmes' fancy medical vocabulary in this chapter. (Since I don't even know my trachea from my oesophagus... ;-) )

In case anyone's squeamish, perhaps I should add a warning that someone does get shot here (hence the anatomical vocabulary). It's really not particularly gory, however...

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We stood frozen behind the curtains, while Milverton read on oblivious. My heart was racing, as much due to Watson's unaccustomed closeness as to our perilous situation, and I could feel that his heart beat just as strongly. We both started in alarm when the door which led from the garden suddenly opened, and Watson's hand tightened around mine. Milverton appeared to have been expecting the visitor, however, for he glanced up without concern as a young man stepped into the study.

"You're late," he snapped. "Come along, sit down and let me see me this letter you spoke of."

The newcomer was wearing the livery of an aristocratic house, partially covered by a large cloak, though something about the way he was dressed did not quite ring true. It was perhaps simply the fact that the uniform was clearly several sizes too large for him.

His face was of a handsome classical beauty, enhanced rather than marred by the shock of red hair which was only partially obscured by his uniform cap. He did not speak, and I wondered whether the dead-white tint of his face was his natural colouring, or was due to the great emotional strain he appeared to be suffering.

"Well, come along," Milverton said, waving at the chair on the other side of his desk. "I don't intend to sit here all night."

"You are indeed a busy man, Milverton," the newcomer said abruptly, and I was intrigued by the educated tones of his voice, not at all in keeping with his mode of dress. "It must be so fatiguing, to look back on all those lives you have brought to ruin, all those hearts you have broken and torn asunder, all those miserable wretches you have driven to self-immolation. How your heart must swell with pride, as you gaze upon... those memories... " His florid discourse ended in a nervous gulp, as his poetic spirit was overcome by his anxiety.

Milverton had risen to his feet, frowning. The young man stood facing him, and withdrew the hand he had been holding hidden beneath his cloak. It was shaking, but the small ornate revolver it held was pointed directly at Milverton.

"Give me - give me the paper," he said in an unsteady voice.

Milverton's gaze was flickering rapidly between the man's face and the gun. He did not seem overly concerned, however; his narrowed eyes contained more speculation than fear. "And which paper would that be, exactly?"

I noted with disdain that the other man did not appear to have devoted a great deal of time to thinking his plan through before acting. "All of them!" he said wildly, waving the revolver in punctuation to his words. "All the documents in your possession, by whose foul means you hold so many innocent people in your grasp."

Milverton began to smile, a cold, false smile which did not reach his eyes. "On second thoughts, there is no need to tell me. I believe I recognise your 'Titian locks', and your 'sculpted alabaster visage'. I was not certain whether Mr Thaddeus Wright had someone in mind or not, when he penned his imprudent composition, nor whether such a person was aware of his unfortunate inclinations. It seems that was indeed the case. How interesting." His smile widened, though his eyes remained cold and hard. "You know, you truly are a most foolish young man. It is a serious crime to threaten a respectable, law-abiding gentleman thus. I have only to raise my voice, and my servants will be here in seconds, but if you leave now, I am willing to let the whole matter drop. It is fortunate for you that your identity remains a mystery to me. "

I had already noted and memorised the design of the livery the other man wore as disguise, and was quite certain Milverton had not failed to do the same. In the not unlikely event that the fool had worn the uniform of his own servants, it would be a simple task to trace and identify him. Milverton had undoubtedly reached the same conclusion.

"And the paper? Wright's poem?"

Milverton shrugged. "What do you care? But if it truly bothers you, why not furnish him with the money he needs to satisfy me?" He ran his gaze up and down the young man in a calculating manner. "If he does not pay up, you know, he is unlikely to survive the shock of exposure, and you shall have to find - "

His sentence was cut short by the retort of the revolver, as the young man began to empty its barrels into Milverton's torso, his hands trembling but his aim sure. I felt Watson tense in order to spring forward, his instinct to preserve life overwhelming, and threw my arms about him to hold him back. I had no intention of allowing him near that armed and highly strung young man under any circumstances, not even had Her Majesty the Queen been standing before us instead of the villainous Milverton.

The first bullet had shattered Milverton's clavicle, and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. The next lodged somewhere in the region of his liver, but he had not even time to double over before the subsequent bullets punctured his heart. His final expression was one of shock and disbelief, as he crumpled to the floor by his desk, and gasped his last.

The young man stood over him, every part of his body trembling with the strongest emotion, his face drained of all blood and his eyes wide and glazed. He backed slowly away, then took to his heels and fled out the door into the garden.

Scarcely had he disappeared when I was already crossing the room to secure the door by which Watson and I had arrived. I was in no doubt that the entire household would shortly arrive on the scene. I then crossed to the safe, and began pulling papers from it in large bundles, and throwing them indiscriminately into the fire.

Out of the corner of one eye, meanwhile, I watched Watson, who had dropped to his knees by the body. He pressed two fingers to Milverton's carotid artery. "Dead, of course. There was nothing I could have done."

"Justice has overtaken a villain," I said shortly. "Come and help me here, Watson."

Footsteps already sounded in the corridor outside, and within moments someone was rattling at the door-handle. Watson threw the last few papers into the fire while I snatched my lamp and tools, and together we dashed out through the garden door. Some of the male members of the household staff were already in the garden, and they shot after us as we sprinted across it and scrambled up the back wall. For one horrible moment I thought Watson had been caught, but he broke free of the hand grasping at his ankle and we dropped to the ground on the other side. Together we raced along the edge of the heath, and lost our pursuers among the affluent villas of Hampstead.

Had I been alone, I should probably have strode all the way to Regent's Park without stopping, but I was very much aware of the suffering Watson must have been undergoing, in silence as always. As soon as we came to a convenient place, a long, covered flight of steps leading to a small public garden, I came to a stop, pulling Watson with me.

"We shall sit here for a while," I said in a voice that brooked no argument. Watson needed no more prompting than that to sink onto the steps, one hand clutching his thigh. I sat down beside him after ascertaining that we could not be seen from the road.

Two men wrapped in ragged blankets were sitting further down the steps, hunched over the tallow candle which illuminated their mongrel dog and their game of cards. They ignored us, as we them.

From the moonlit outline of his face I could see that Watson was biting his lip. "I'm very much afraid my muscle has seized up," he gasped. "I shan't be able to walk for quite a while."

We sat in silence, catching our breath. After some time, Watson said:

"His name is Faulkner - the young man in the study."

"He is an artist of some kind, I take it?"

Watson nodded. "A poet."

"I'm not surprised." I could not keep a note of disdain from my voice. "And titled, by the livery he wore?"

"Very minor nobility, I believe. He met Wright at some sort of radical political meeting." I was sure I detected a hint of sadness in his voice when he added, "Wright has certainly inspired a very deep devotion in him."

I clucked my tongue impatiently. "I would do the same for you, and a great deal more."

I had spoken without thinking, but when Watson's gaze snapped around to meet mine, his eyes filled with astonishment and something approaching awe, I realised precisely what I had revealed.

Nonetheless, I had not the slightest desire to retract my words. "I meant that," I said, and watched Watson's face break into a smile. After a moment, I felt some further clarifications were necessary, for the sake of my reputation. "That is not to say, of course, that I should have lost my head in such an unseemly manner, nor left without the document I had come to obtain. I should like to think I am a great deal more level-headed than that."

Watson gave a shaky laugh. I felt his hand brush my left hip, then move around to rest on my other shoulder so that I was encircled by his arm. After a moment's hesitation I leant into his embrace.

His hand tightened on my shoulder, drawing me closer. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"Rather pleasant to be able to do this without that fiend sitting a few yards away, is it not?" he said softly. His lips brushed the tip of my ear. "You know, when we were behind that curtain, I thought I would explode, so tantalising was it to be pressed together thus. Now, however - " He lifted his hand from my shoulder to run it slowly along the line of my jaw. The sensation was breathtaking.

"Watson - " I said in a strangled voice. "Don't - "

He stiffened a little, and pulled away in order to look me in the face. "Holmes, surely you do agree - if I can repeat your words about our excursion to Appledore Towers - that this is something which is a crime in name only, and does not even need justifying from a moral standpoint?"

"Yes, of course."

He relaxed, though the few inches of air between us remained.

"Yet you trust me to commit burglary with you, but you cannot trust me in this? You cannot trust me to be discreet? I'm not a fool, Holmes, and I never do anything to draw attention to myself. It seems to me that you yourself are the only person in the world you truly trust." There was nothing accusatory or angry in his voice, which was filled with sorrow.

His words were almost a physical blow to me. I had never understood why modesty should be considered a virtue, and so had rarely objected to having the epitaph of arrogant applied to me. However, I had never regretted the attribute more than at that moment. Watson was perfectly correct in suggesting that I did not believe anyone else capable of the discretion and constraint I myself practised. And yet how could I have done Watson the insult of categorising him indiscriminately with the rest of the world?

I stared at him, feeling as though one of the central tenets of my life had been overturned. I was utterly incapable of voicing the sentiments which surged through my mind.

Then the dog barked further down the steps, breaking the spell. Watson gave my shoulder a squeeze before releasing me.

"I am chilled to the bone, sitting here," he said lightly, "and I believe I am fit to move again." He began to struggle to his feet.

I sprang up to help him.

"Watson," I said once we were both upright, without releasing him from my grasp. "I beg you to believe me when I say I do trust you."

The words hung in the air between us.

"I know," he said. "Of course I know." He offered me his arm. "Come along, we have a long walk ahead of us."

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I promise not to keep these poor men apart _too_ much longer...

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	8. In the bleak midwinter a

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 8 of 10)

Many thanks to Callensensei, who inspired this chapter :-)

You can't get a train to Cirencester any more, sadly, thanks to Beeching, but you could at the time.

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Holmes and I were not particularly surprised to see Inspector Lestrade call on us at noon the day after our excursion to Hampstead.

"This little affair should be right up your street, Mr Holmes," he said as shook hands with both of us. "You know who Charles Augustus Milverton was, of course?"

"I've heard of him, yes," Holmes said calmly. "Am I to conclude from your words that he is now the late Charles Augustus Milverton?"

"Quite right, Mr Holmes!" Lestrade settled himself in a chair, and proceeded to outline the bloody scene he had discovered at Appledore Towers in the early hours of that morning. He seemed already to have conducted a detailed investigation, and was particularly taken with the fact that from the footprints in and around the house, he had deduced there to have been quite a number of intruders in Milverton's house that night, coming and going in all directions.

"And yet it's not easy to understand what precisely each of them was up to," he finished. "If you could do me the favour of stepping out to Hampstead - "

Holmes shook his head. "Intriguing as you make it sound, I fear I must nevertheless decline. In this case my sympathy lies with the criminals, rather than with the scoundrel I have long considered to be the worst man in London."

Lestrade did not appear surprised. "Between you and me, Mr Holmes, I quite agree. But murder is murder, and we must make some attempt to find the culprit - though it will be no easy task. It's no good examining possible motives, for there must be hundreds of people across London who would have rejoiced to see him dead." After a few more comments on the excellent job he had made so far of examining the scene, he took his leave.

Holmes and I were left alone together. What with our late rising and Mrs Hudson's continual presence, we had not spoken alone since returning from Hampstead the previous night. A cold snap had begun overnight, and we were both wrapped up warmly, the fire already blazing at midday. Holmes was curled up in his armchair by the fireplace, an afghan tucked around his knees, pipe in hand, and a decidedly pensive air about him. I sat watching him quite openly, wondering whether he was remembering our conversation on the cold stone steps the previous night, or had already completely dismissed it from his mind. Myself, I had been able to think of little else all morning.

He became aware of my gaze, and smiled at me.

"Today I believe we have earned a day of rest, my dear Watson. What do you say to an afternoon at the Science Museum in Kensington?" He crossed to the window. "Although my enthusiasm is tempered somewhat by the snow I see beginning to fall. Halloa! What's this? Someone has braved the cold to come and call on us - Good Lord!"

"What's the matter?"

Holmes had turned quite pale, and I hurried across the room to join him at the window.

I was just in time to get a good look at the face of a rather stolidly built young lady, as she glanced up at our window. Then Mrs Hudson admitted her and she disappeared from sight.

Holmes groaned. "Heaven help me."

"Holmes, what on earth is the matter?"

"It's Agatha!"

This was not the slightest bit enlightening to me, and I said as much.

"My fiancée, of course!" Holmes said impatiently.

"But - "

I did not quite know how to voice my confusion. In fact, I had been picturing Holmes' fiancée quite differently, as a tall, raven-haired beauty, who charmed and entranced all those around her.

"What is the matter, Watson?"

"I thought she was - different," I said lamely.

"She is really quite a typical example of a London housemaid, you know, Watson."

"But - I mean - " I gestured weakly at my upper lip.

"Yes," Holmes said quite seriously, "it is true that her moustache fades into insignificance when set beside your magnificent growth."

I should have laughed, had I not been staring at him in undisguised amazement. Holmes rarely complimented me on my appearance, and certainly never so openly. I began to hope that something had indeed changed in him the previous night, but though I burned to discuss the matter, it was decidedly difficult to know how to begin.

"Watson - " Holmes said in a peculiar tone of voice, making me quite certain that he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

We heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open, and Mrs Hudson's voice grow louder.

"No time for that now!" Holmes exclaimed. "I am undone! Agatha has discovered my true identity."

"It's possible that she's simply here to ask for your help in tracing her missing fiancé."

Holmes grasped at this suggestion. "Quite right, Watson. Good Lord, I do hope so! Nevertheless, she is bound to recognise me, despite my change of clothing and voice."

"Can't you - " I gestured vaguely at his face, thinking of the incredible transformations I had seen him undergo in the past.

"Not in thirty seconds," he said, for footsteps already sounded on the stairs.

"Then I shall deal with her. Do you hide until she is gone."

He disappeared into his bedroom, and I had just time to sit down and pick up a newspaper before our visitor was shown in.

She was a well-built young woman, dressed cheaply but neatly, in a woollen frock coat and winter boots, with her head and shoulders muffled up against the cold. She was quite a head shorter than me, and Holmes must have been obliged to stoop low in order to kiss her. I pushed that unpleasant thought from my mind, and rose to greet her.

"I'm afraid Mr Holmes is not in."

"Your housekeeper told me he was."

"Well, I'm afraid she was mistaken."

She looked at me suspiciously. "And who are you, sir?"

"I'm his biographer."

She did not look as impressed as I had hoped. "Good, then you can take some notes, and tell him everything later. It's about my fiancé. He was supposed to meet me first thing this morning - today's my day off - but he never turned up, and they've never heard of him at the address where he told me he lived, so - "

"Biographer does not mean secretary, you know!" I protested. "Really, you would have to see Mr Holmes personally."

"Very well, then I'll call again tomorrow."

"I don't believe he'll be in tomorrow either."

She eyed me in suspicion. "When will he be in, then?"

"Er..."

She gave me the sort of look usually reserved for blithering idiots. "Then I'll call every evening until I do see him."

I was horrified by this prospect, but my overwhelming emotion was one of growing concern for the girl. "You must have loved your fiancé very much."

She gave a sniff and a toss of her head. "I ain't about to let myself be jilted by any man. Did you know, a Miss Constance Wilks got two thousand pounds in a breach-of-promise case from the Viscount Hartingwick!"

"Indeed?" I said, very much relieved by her attitude. "Well, I'm sorry I cannot help you, Miss Trent. Perhaps if you wait a few days, your fiancé may yet turn up. After all, one missed rendezvous does not constitute a disappearance."

She appeared far from convinced by this admittedly feeble suggestion. "And the false address he gave me?"

"Ah - "

"See you tomorrow," she said, turning to leave. "Good day, sir."

"Mr Holmes is going away," I said suddenly. "I had forgotten, but in fact - he is going away to the country for a few days - that is to say, several weeks."

She eyed me suspiciously, presumably thinking that for a secretary, I was sadly disorganised.

"I think I had better come back tomorrow in any case," she said. "Farewell until then."

It was a good five minutes after she left before Holmes judged the risk of her sudden return to be sufficiently low for him to safely emerge from his room.

"You heard?" I asked.

"Every word! God help me! I cannot spend the next week hiding in my bedroom."

"We could really go away to the country," I suggested diffidently. "I mean, you could - or both of us, even."

"What do you mean?"

"Just before Lestrade arrived, I received a telegram from Wright. He informs us that his little matter is now settled, says he means to call this afternoon to thank you for your help and invites us to stay in the country over Christmas - in fact it is Faulkner who invites us, I believe."

To my disappointment, Holmes did not seem particularly enthusiastic.

"Really, Watson, I have no desire to spend Christmas with an aristocratic anarchist poet, even if your friend will also be there to temper his lunatic tendencies a little."

"He won't be there."

"No?"

"No, he will be at his ancestral home, with the dowager baroness and the rest of the family. And Wright will be with him, I presume. There are not many details in the telegram, but if it is the same place he mentioned before, I assume they are offering us the use of a small hunting lodge in the Cotswolds. We can pass a quiet Christmas there together, if you like..."

I spoke as diffidently as I could, but Holmes undoubtedly scented my keenness. Indeed, he himself seemed rather less hostile to the idea now that he had heard the true nature of the situation, and when Wright called around to see us soon after, Holmes gracefully accepted his offer.

Wright did not stay long, as he was anxious to return to the bedside of his friend, who was apparently prostrate with nervous exhaustion. He thanked Holmes again for all his efforts, skirting delicately around the details of how exactly his 'little affair' had in fact been resolved, and took his leave.

Later, as Holmes piled mountains of books and papers into a trunk, as though we were going away for a month, he gave a sudden bark of a laugh and turned to look at me, his grey eyes alight with mirth.

" 'I'm his biographer'! Really, Watson!"

"Someday, it will be true," I said firmly.

"Much as the idea flatters my ego, I really cannot imagine anyone wishing to read stories of my life or cases. The number of people in this world who could truly appreciate the beauty of the science of deduction must be minuscule."

It was not a dry account of Holmes' analytical methods that I had in mind, of course, but I kept my silence.

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We left London the following morning, and embarked on our journey across the south of England, changing trains in Swindon, and again in Cirencester. Finally we found ourselves standing shivering outside a tiny branch-line station, counting ourselves lucky to have found someone in possession of a horse and carriage, who was also prepared to brave the snow which already lay deep on the roads.

The ride was bumpy and the carriage not particularly well insulated from the elements, but I occasionally braved the chilly air outside the carriage window to better appreciate the gentle beauty of the rolling hills, blanketed in white, and the golden limestone cottages nestled between them, their well-tended gardens and orchards all buried in snow.

When we finally reached the lodge, on the edge of a very small and sleepy village, we were delighted to find a roaring fire and a hearty afternoon tea awaiting us, courtesy of a plump, middle-aged lady called Mrs Stroud.

"I'll be back later to make some supper," she said. "And if you ever need anything, I'm in Church Lane, the last as you go down the hill. But not before seven o'clock in the morning, mind."

We assured her that we were quite unlikely to call on her that early, and she left.

It was quite late in the afternoon by the time we had finished eating, but the light still remained, the snow had stopped falling, and everything through the window appeared crisp and clear. Holmes was eyeing his trunk of books, but I suggested a ramble outside before the light failed. To my surprise he agreed readily and went to fetch our coats while I finished my cup of tea.

Holmes took my arm without hesitation as we walked down the drive to the road, giving me a small smile which showed me that he was perfectly well aware of the significance of his gesture.

I was longing to know what fruits two nights of reflection on our conversation in Hampstead had born, but for want of a suitable way to start the conversation, I made a remark on the prettiness of the small, snow-buried cottages which lined one side of the road.

"And yet I am sure that one could find hearts within just as black as any in London," said Holmes, although the thought did not seem to depress him particularly.

We walked as far as the village green, which was covered in a deep layer of snow, broken only by the prints of a dog and a small boy who had crossed from one corner to the other. No one was in sight, and the snow dampened every sound, giving the whole place a comforting air of peace and repose. We walked all the way round the green, passing the tiny village post office, already closed for the day, and an ancient limestone church.

"How pleasant it must be to live here all year round, and see the new and beautiful scenes wrought by each change of the seasons," I remarked, as the light began to fade and we turned back towards the lodge.

"I am not surprised it appeals to your romantic sensibilities, Watson, yet only think of the impracticalities! How long do you suppose it would take a telegram sent from here to reach London, for instance? And as for getting hold of silver chloride or any such thing - ! I am quite certain I shall never live in the country."

I smiled to myself, for this seemed quite a definitive decision for a man in his twenties, but I passed no comment.

Soft flakes of snow began to fall, and our leisurely stroll became a brisk march.

Looking sideways at Holmes as we walked, I remembered my earlier speculations on the urban or rural nature of his origins.

"Where were you born, Holmes?" I asked suddenly.

"Nowhere you would have heard of. It is a small town in the North Riding."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You're from Yorkshire."

He nodded, amused by my reaction.

"I never would have believed it," I said. "I thought you were a Londoner born and bred."

"Aye, but thou mun't make assumptions lahk that wi'out proof, Watson. There in't owt to suggest I weren't born and bred in t'Dales."

I felt my breath catch suddenly in my throat. I had always had a weakness for Holmes' wonderful baritone, and to hear it expressed in such an unfamiliar and earthy dialect gave me a most peculiar thrill.

Holmes reverted to his own accent. "Oh dear, you look as though that was quite painful, Watson."

"No, no, in fact I find it rather - ahem." I finished in a cough, feeling my cheeks heat up.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? Rather 'ahem'?"

I could feel myself grow even redder, but this was accompanied by a pleasant warm feeling in the pit of my stomach, for there was a certain undertone to the conversation which had never before been present between us.

"If we're confessing our secret fascinations," Holmes said, "I should admit that I have always found your accent quite alluring, my dear Watson."

I was torn between rejoicing at Holmes' choice of adjective and deploring the dreadful calumny.

"I don't have an accent!" I protested.

"You often do, however, my dear fellow. Particularly when you are angry or enthusiastic about something. After all, I had pinned down your Scottish origins with a few hours of meeting you."

I could not help but splutter at this blatant falsehood.

Holmes leant close to murmur in my ear, "Don't look so insulted, Watson. It's really rather exciting."

I stopped walking and turned slowly to face him, my heart racing. There were two flushes of pink high in the cheekbones of his normally pale face. I raised an eyebrow at him and he nodded deliberately.

Suddenly the deserted country road seemed far too public, and I was enormously glad that we were only a few yards from the tree-lined drive to the lodge. I drew him into the cover of the large stone gatepost, and lost no time in claiming his mouth with mine, with a fierceness born of months of pent-up desire. That he had suffered just as much was evident in the strength of his hold as his gloved hands gripped my neck and shoulders, pressing me against him.

We devoured one another, half-blinded by the snowflakes falling into our eyes, as we dismissed to the realms of distant memory the awkwardness which had separated us for so many months.

There were many things I wanted to discuss with Holmes, and many points which would have to be clarified, but that could wait. For the moment, I had other ideas as to how we would spend the next few hours, and words did not feature heavily in them.

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	9. In the bleak midwinter b

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 9 of 10)

Warning: Let's just say Holmes and Watson don't spend the evening doing the _Times_ crossword together... However, nothing too explicit.

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We stood together by the blazing log fire in the sitting room, the cold outside having finally vanquished our ardour and driven us indoors. Mrs Stroud had appeared directly after our return to the lodge, but we soon sent her home again, as much from a keen desire to be alone as from concern for her safe passage through the worsening snow. Cold beef and cheese lay unheeded on the sideboard as Holmes caught my shoulders and pulled me towards him, even as I reached for him.

I was rendered light-headed by the closeness: lips brushing cheeks, hips touching hips, arms encircling one another, without the intervening armour-like layers of outdoor clothing. Almost giddy from this new-found liberty to touch, I let my hand drift slowly down his spine to his waist. He shivered when I slipped my hand under the bottom of his jacket, so that only a few layers of cotton separated me from his bare skin.

"Watson," he murmured, letting his hand fall down to rest on my collar. "May I - ?"

I kissed him in response, and felt his fingers swiftly undo my cravat and then my collar, and toss them aside, before progressing to the first button of my shirt. He bent his head and his lips brushed the newly bared skin of my throat, sending an electrifying sensation right through me.

"Good Lord, Holmes," I muttered in a voice which surprised me by its unsteadiness.

He raised his head and met my gaze. His eyes were bright and his thin lips flushed with colour. I could not resist the impulse to recapture those lips with mine as I followed his lead on the buttons of his own clothing.

We rapidly lost our initial awkwardness in the headiness of being permitted to explore previously forbidden territory, in the vertiginous sensation of crossing a line which had so long restrained us. There was something intoxicating in the glimpse of Holmes' bare skin, where usually he was covered by layers of buttoned-up clothing. When his fingers strayed below my waistband, I could not help but moan and press against him. A moment later, however, the recollection of where we were caused me to step back.

"Holmes, wait."

A shadow of fear passed across his face.

"No, I only meant, perhaps we should retire upstairs?"

Holmes glanced at the blazing fire. "I did have the hearthrug in mind," he confessed with a wry smile.

I had a sudden vision of Holmes sprawled on the hearthrug, the firelight playing over his naked chest. However, I still hesitated. "It doesn't seem quite respectable."

He raised an eyebrow at this, his eyes alight with amusement and desire. "And you consider us respectable in all other regards?"

I could not help but laugh. "You know, I don't believe I can bear to take the time to climb the stairs, and light a fire and - "

"I know I cannot," he said, and his tone drove all thoughts of retiring upstairs from my mind.

I had never allowed my imagination to progress to this point with Holmes, although many dreams, outside my control as they were, had been rather more explicit. In any case, the contents of any flights of fantasy on my part would have been quite inaccurate. There was nothing cold or reserved in the hands which tugged at the buttons of my waistcoat, nothing aloof in the lips which progressed down the bare skin of my front. However, I soon lost the ability for such analysis, or indeed rational thought of any kind, as we gave free reign to the fruits of a year of pent-up desire.

Finally, we collapsed side-by-side onto our backs by the fire, our hands touching as our breathing gradually slowed. After some time I opened my eyes to find Holmes propped up on one elbow, gazing down at me with a most peculiar expression on his face.

"Holmes?"

He smiled. "It's nothing. I simply - You're - " He reached out and ran a hand through my hair, which was undoubtedly sticking out at all angles. I understood without the need for further explanation, for it had been one of my own suppressed desires to see Holmes thus. His long, thin form was stretched out on the hearthrug, collarless and braceless, his clothing all undone. That which stirred me the most, however, was the flush in his cheeks and the dishevelled state of his dark hair, a state in which I had scarcely dared hope ever to see it. He looked magnificent.

"So are you," I said softly.

I lay back on the rug, one hand on Holmes' bare wrist, enjoying the warmth of the flames. I was beginning to doze off when I felt him stir.

"I must admit this to have been an excellent idea of yours, Watson."

"Hmm?"

I heard him chuckle. "It's a little early to fall asleep, don't you think?"

"It's been a long day!" I protested, forcing my eyes open. "And besides, it's quite normal for a fellow to feel sleepy after - that is to say, afterwards."

Holmes appeared not to conform to that generality. He was sitting upright, cross-legged, his eyes bright and a smile hovering around his lips. "It was an excellent idea to come here, I meant to say."

I quite agreed, but his words brought to mind my earlier fears, cutting across the euphoria of the proceeding hour. "And - what about when we're no longer here? Once we've returned to London?"

He did not reply, and my blood ran cold.

Now wide awake, I sat up so as to look him in the eye. "Holmes, I don't believe I can go back to watching you from a distance and keeping my silence. Either I must leave Baker Street, or - "

It was remarkable how rapidly his face drained of colour. "You want to leave Baker Street."

"No, of course not. On the contrary! What I wish to say is - " Desperately, I sought the right words. "What I mean is that this - us - If you don't wish to - "

As soon as he had understood my meaning, he leant forward to return my gaze. "My dear fellow, I beg you not to think so harshly of me. This was no whim on my part, I assure you."

I knew that the true obstacles to overcome lay in London, and not in our hearts or minds. Nevertheless, I could not dampen the elation which was already rekindling inside me. "Nor mine – as I believe you know already."

Holmes reached for his jacket, which lay in a crumpled heap a few feet away, and drew his cigarette case from the pocket. He offered me one, and leant in close to light it for me. It was a comfortable, familiar gesture, but now everything was infused with new significance.

I felt the lightest possible brush of a caress on my shoulder before Holmes jumped to his feet, and began to wander round the room in his shirtsleeves, filled with nervous energy, smoking furiously and poking at various ornaments and books. I watched him from my position by the fire, simply enjoying the sight. At one point he stopped short, and I saw that he had noticed our collar pins, lying together on a chair. He caught my eye and I saw my contentment reflected in his features.

I realised suddenly that I was ravenous. "Perhaps we should eat?"

After gathering and donning braces, waistcoats, coats, collars and cravats, we sat down to supper. Looking at the man opposite me, collar buttoned up, elegant and neatly dressed, it was difficult to believe that he had been clinging to me half an hour earlier, gasping my name.

"Worcester sauce?" he said.

"Please."

When our fingers brushed, we did not snatch our hands instantly apart as before. Indeed, I was persuaded that Holmes even allowed his fingers to linger a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

We talked of all sorts of things that evening, of opera singers and of the malaria parasite, of piano-tuning and of the introduction of compulsory education. The conversation came around to the unusually realistic and unromantic portrayal of women in some recent French works from the school they called 'Impressionist'.

Holmes seemed amused by my enthusiastic description of a portrait I had seen in the National Gallery the previous year, when I first returned to London and was attempting to fill the long and lonely days. "You are certainly the expert in these matters, my dear fellow."

I felt myself grow red. "Really, Holmes, I don't have nearly as much experience of women as you seem to assume. I mean, in fact it is not so simple - " I felt myself floundering.

Holmes raised an eyebrow, inviting me to continue.

"Well, I mean to say, the field of play is rather limited. One doesn't like to corrupt unmarried women - at least, I don't. But of course married women are also out of bounds."

"And yet?"

"Well, there have been a few widows," I muttered.

For some reason, this caused him to burst into laughter.

I felt myself grow still redder. "Young widows, Holmes!"

"I know, I know." To my surprise he reached out and gave my hand a brief squeeze. "You really are an incomparably good fellow, Watson." Before I could react to this unexpected compliment, he had turned away to serve us both another helping of beef from the sideboard. "In any case, I have never been very keen on traipsing around art galleries."

I was more interested in his own past encounters, but I did not quite know how to pose the question, and the conversation turned to the Natural History Museum.

Once we had eaten our fill, I tidied away the supper dishes while Holmes extinguished the oil-lamps and damped down the fire. When I returned to the sitting room, I found Holmes standing by the door, looking rather uncomfortable.

"It's quite late," I said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Indeed," said Holmes.

After a moment's hesitation, we both took candles and climbed the small, crooked stairs to the upper storey, which was built directly into the roof. The two bedroom doors faced each other across a narrow, dark corridor. I stopped outside my door, and turned to glance at Holmes. I found my own uncertainty mirrored in his expression. He turned away and for a moment I thought he intended to retire to bed as though nothing had happened. Then he turned abruptly to face me.

"Watson - "

I took the plunge. "I believe my room is the larger."

He flashed me a brief smile. I stood aside and he preceded me into the bedroom.

I was strangely nervous, much more so than I had been earlier. It was one thing to share a brief liaison with someone, and quite another to fall asleep beside him. Despite a decent amount of experience on three different continents, though I do say so myself, I had never yet spent an entire night with any person. The whole affair seemed steeped in significance.

Holmes appeared to share my feelings. He stood by the door still holding his candle, while I sat down on the bed, and we eyed each other awkwardly. I shivered, for the room was almost unbearably cold. Indeed, the water in the basin had completely frozen over.

Holmes was shivering too. "I am quite sure it is never this cold in London." He grinned suddenly. "One would almost think the weather was purposefully designed to encourage licentious behaviour and the sharing of beds."

We both chuckled, and suddenly everything had returned to normal.

I held out a hand. "Come along then, before we freeze to death."

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	10. God rest ye merry, gentlemen

Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 10 of 10)

Warnings: none, unless you object to Christmas carols in the month of August ;)

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I was awoken by the sound of a heavy object thudding to the floor, followed by a muffled curse. The room was in complete darkness, and reaching out, I found the bed beside me to be empty.

"Watson?" I said softly.

"Damn it." From his voice, I judged him to be standing a few feet away. "I'm so sorry to have woken you, Holmes. I got up to look for a nightshirt, but I appear to have knocked something over."

"Why the devil didn't you light a candle?"

"I was afraid I would wake you."

We both realised the absurdity of this statement at the same moment, and began to laugh.

"Wait a moment," I said, feeling for the matches on the bedside table.

Once the candle was burning, its soft yellow circle of light revealed Watson standing by his open travelling trunk, as naked as he had been when we finally fell asleep.

All of a sudden, I found I was involuntarily holding my breath. It was the first time I had been able to study him properly thus, for the previous night we had been rather too impatient to take more than a moment to pause and observe. He was not holding himself upright as was his habit, but was rather hunched and round-shouldered. I knew he was thinking of the rugby-player's physique he must once have possessed.

"You're magnificent," I said softly.

"I shall very soon have caught my death of pneumonia," he said, but I saw that he was standing much straighter than before.

He turned to search once more for a nightshirt among the tangle of clothes spilling from his trunk.

"Good heavens, Watson, never mind the nightshirt! Come here."

He brought one all the same, and laid it by the bed, but subsequent actions on my part caused him to very quickly forget all about donning it.

.. .. ..

The next morning, I awoke to find myself quite alone. In the bitter cold, I washed and dressed as quickly as possibly, after breaking the thin layer of ice which had already formed on the water in the washbasin since Watson's ablutions. I judged that to have occurred at least half an hour previously, which was confirmed when I descended to the sitting room, for Watson had already had time to light the fire, and make tea and toast.

"Good morning, my dear fellow!" he cried, appearing in the doorway laden with jam and butter. "Do you know, the most dreadful thing has just occurred to me."

I froze. "What is it?"

"Well, unless I miscalculate it's Christmas Eve today. And under the circumstances, I am very unlikely to have the opportunity to buy you a present before tomorrow morning."

"That's – rather fortunate," I said, my momentary panic ebbing away.

He sat down at the table, chuckling. "I'm relieved to learn you find yourself in the same predicament."

I sat down opposite him, and watched as he spread jam on his toast, which was impressively golden brown, and only slightly burnt in some places. It was an incredible feeling to know that I could reach out and touch those strong brown hands, and they would entwine around mine instead of freezing or jumping away.

Watson grinned at me as he passed me a butter-knife. "You know, when you came into the room I was quite overcome by the desire to kiss you. It didn't seem quite the thing at breakfast, though."

I could not help but return the smile. "Do not restrain yourself tomorrow morning, Watson, I beg you."

I was suddenly struck by the revelation that from this moment forward I could kiss Watson whenever I so wished, circumstances permitting - and assuming that Watson would continue to endure all of my more noxious qualities as a companion. By some miracle, he had already done so for almost a year. I stirred my tea, falling into a reverie.

I had never been able to sustain happiness very long; my mind could never allow itself to forget that every rose had its thorns, and nothing endured forever. Now, despite my euphoria every time Watson caught my eye and smiled, some part of my mind protested that we were living an unsustainable dream in the Cotswolds. Our trial, and mine in particular, would come on our return to London.

And yet, I was certain that commencing this wondrous, terrifying thing had been no error. How could it have been, when my heart told me otherwise every time Watson glanced my way. Moreover, I doubted either of us could have withstood the torture a great deal longer without snapping, in one irrevocable way or another. Indeed a part of me revelled in the thought of being ensconced in Baker Street together on the long winter's evenings to come. I simply wished I knew whether I would be able to liberate myself from the feeling of being constantly on the knife-edge of discovery.

Watson's voice broke into my reverie. "Holmes, you look quite grim." He was clearly trying to suppress an anxious note from his voice, and failing.

I suddenly came to myself. "I was being quite stupid, my dear fellow, that is all." I met his gaze, seeing his blue eyes screwed up with worry, and cursed myself for a fool. "I was confusing my dear Watson with some idiotic, imprudent men I have known in the past."

Watson had evidently been thinking along similar lines as I, for he divined the thoughts behind my words, and sighed. "In some ways I wish we could remain here for ever, isolated from the world."

I stretched out a hand to grasp his. "It is not necessary, I promise you. I told you I trusted you, and I dare to think you do me. That is all we require."

He squeezed my hand, before grasping the toasting iron and standing up. "Another slice of toast, Holmes?"

On his way to the fireplace, he surprised me by planting a kiss on the top of my head.

We ate in comfortable silence for a while. I sorely felt the lack of the morning's newspapers. A yellowing copy of the local gazette held my attention for a few moments, but after skimming through a detailed account of the previous year's harvest festival contests, I threw it aside in disgust. Watson was flicking through an illustrated guide to Britain's fresh-water fish, which he had found in the room's bookshelves, sadly dominated by publications of a sporting nature. I stood up and went to fetch some papers from my trunk, which stood in the corner of the room.

"The pot's still warm," said Watson. "Another cup?"

"Please," I said, beginning to feel I had brought too many papers, for among them all, I could not find the one I wanted. "You're rather a dab hand at making tea, you know, Watson. I had no idea."

"Comes from my army days. My batman was rather rubbish in that regard."

"You should have listed that as one of your virtues, when we first met. Though come to think of it, I believe we only exchanged our shortcomings." I turned back to my chest of books, adding absently, "You know, it's a damned good thing I didn't fall for you the moment I saw you. If I'd done so, I should certainly never have allowed myself to move in with you."

I heard Watson say in a small voice, "Of course, that's quite understandable given the shape I was in."

I spun round. "Watson! I did not mean - "

He laughed. "Think nothing of it." To my acute hearing, however, his laugh sounded quite off key.

I had very quickly noticed Watson's insecurity when it came to his physical condition, though I had never before felt myself in a position to be permitted to comment. Even now, I was not sure how to address the question. I came slowly back across the room towards the table, papers in hand, resolved to take every possible opportunity to demonstrate to him in word and deed precisely what I thought of his many and varied physical attributes.

.. .. ..

We spent the morning rambling over the wooded hills around the village. The roads were impassable because of the snowdrifts, the ground was unmarked by human traces, and scarcely even an animal had passed, leaving me bereft of interesting tracks to follow. That day, however, I found that Watson and his kisses were quite enough to entertain me.

We returned to find the lodge filled with the smell of roast goose and the sound of clattering dishes and pans.

"I shan't be by tomorrow," Mrs Stroud called from the kitchen. "So I thought I'd do you a nice dinner today, and you can eat the leftovers tomorrow. I hope that's all right with you, gentlemen?"

"Of course, Mrs Stroud," said Watson, as she bustled us into the sitting room, where the table was already set. "We wouldn't dream of keeping you from your family on Christmas day."

She beamed at us as she piled roast potatoes and parsnips onto our plates. "And how is the young master keeping?"

I could not help but be startled, for in my mind, Faulkner was firmly associated with murder, and crimes against nature, and although I knew my reaction to be ridiculous, it was a momentary shock to think of Mrs Stroud being acquainted with him.

Watson said calmly, "A little over-exhausted, I believe, but I'm sure the Christmas spirit will do him good."

"Oh dear me! Well, I do hope he comes to visit us in Gloucestershire soon." She drowned my plate in a daunting amount of gravy. "And how is his friend Mr Wright?"

At this, I almost jumped out of my skin, but Mrs Stroud was bearing down on Watson's plate with the gravy pot as though nothing at all untoward had been said.

Watson cast me a concerned glance, before smiling at Mrs Stroud. "He was keeping very well, the last time I saw him."

I envied him his nonchalance. Reminding myself of my resolution not to jeopardise our happiness by my wariness, I forced myself to relax. I told myself to look on it as an occasion to practise for the many such situations we would surely encounter in the future.

"Enjoy your meal, gentleman," said Mrs Stroud, lying a carving knife by the goose before disappearing into the kitchen.

We both stared at the knife, and then each other. I could see that Watson was trying not to smile.

"Well?" he said.

My gaze flickered from him to the knife and back again, as I held back my own smile. It really was most peculiar. Before the previous night, we would have paid little heed to the matter of which of us undertook to carve, the traditional male rôle. Now it seemed steeped in significance.

I bit my lip. "How do you feel about taking turns?"

Watson reached for the knife, grinning. "An excellent idea, Holmes."

.. .. ..

The onset of a fresh fall of snow obliged us to postpone our after-dinner stroll. I was about to curl up in an armchair with a history of alchemy in the Balkans when a sudden idea prompted me to choose the sofa instead. To my delight, Watson took the hint and came to join me. At first we sat rather primly, side-by-side. Then suddenly Watson moved, and I found his head in my lap, and his book propped up on my knee. I was quite content to take the liberty of entwining a hand through his thick fair hair. My other hand held my book open on the arm of the sofa, but I did not progress very far that afternoon, for I was deep in thought.

It was the first time I had ever sat thus with someone, simply enjoying the comfortable contact, without any undercurrents of seduction, domination or exploitation. I came to the conclusion that it was worth any amount of anxiety and paranoia.

When the weather finally cleared we decided to take our walk, despite the late hour. Darkness had already fallen, but by the light of the full moon we could see clearly. Snow crunched underfoot as we retraced our path of the previous day. When we reached it, the heart of the village lay peaceful and silent in the moonlight, save for the music and singing drifting across the village green to us from the church.

"Lessons and carols!" Watson exclaimed, and hurried me around the green to the small stone church we had passed on our first walk through the village. I was somewhat less enthusiastic about hearing the massacre of beautiful choral music by an amateur organist and a rabble of country schoolboys, but I followed his lead, and we slipped quietly into the back of the church.

The interior was warm and dark, with widely spaced candles leaving the villagers and their Sunday best half in shadow. In the nearest spot of candle-light, two older children fidgeted, over-excited, while their younger siblings dozed on the wooden pews.

We remained at the back of the church, out of the way, as the carols continued. Watson turned out to have a wonderful bass. I had had no idea that he possessed any ability in that direction at all, but in fact he proved to own a voice full of passion and depth. I soon forgot my earlier disparaging sentiments towards the music as I lost myself in his voice, and the familiar words. In the dark I could see only his well-loved outline, broad and strong, his body angled somewhat, perhaps unconsciously, towards mine. I reflected on how incredibly fortunate I was, and how incredibly idiotic I had been to wait so long.

The final reading and the final carol came to an end, and I felt Watson's hand slip into mine in the shadows.

"God rest you merry, Holmes," he said softly.

In the shadows I squeezed his hand. "And you, my love."

The crowd which streamed from the church with us thinned rapidly as we walked back towards the lodge, and by the time we reached the driveway, we were quite alone.

The snow-covered path to the door shone silver in the moonlight, and only our footprints marked it, side-by-side as always. I drew Watson to me for one last embrace in the snow before we gave ourselves up to warmth and bed and each other.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Fin

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Voilà, c'est fini ! I do hope this chapter was a satisfying conclusion. Although I do have some ideas for a sequel...

By the way, if anyone's interested, I never have any particular actors in mind when writing Holmes and Watson, but rather the two men we see in the Paget illustrations. Though I do have a certain weakness for Vitaly Solomin, who must surely be the cutest Watson ever :)


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